


The Sahara Experiment Affair

by Jazline



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-30
Updated: 2020-08-16
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:09:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 10
Words: 70,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25605622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jazline/pseuds/Jazline
Summary: After their last mission failed, Illya Kuryakin was captured and "gone" for weeks.  It took the Napoleon Solo "luck" to find him, and when he did....
Comments: 8
Kudos: 30





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A loving SHOUT-OUT to Romanse: Thank you SO MUCH for the FABULOUS artwork you created for The Sahara Experiment Affair. Your beautifully drawn gift means so much to me!!!!!

The crowd at the auction created a din which made its way to the bazaar’s tented café. Napoleon Solo heard the noise; curiosity got the better of him so he grabbed his knapsack and left to investigate the commotion. 

He wove through the crowds, the sound getting louder as he approached the makeshift arena. As he neared, he saw groups of men and women bound at the wrists by rope, standing and sitting on the elevated platform. A slave auction. Squinting in the morning sun, one man in particular caught his attention. 

Although he was simply one of the many unfortunates wearing loose white clothing, the blond hair was unmistakable. Illya was sitting with his legs drawn to his chest, eyes closed, slender face resting on his raised knees. As Napoleon neared, he tried to get Illya’s attention, but to no avail. 

The perspective buyers took the liberty of getting on the platform to inspect the slaves, so Napoleon followed suit. He feigned interest in a few, and then walked over to Illya, softly speaking his name. The blond man’s eyes remained shut. Squatting down, he shook Illya’s shoulders slightly and saw the pale blue eyes open.

"Illya," he repeated.

This time, Illya’s eyes opened a little wider, then squinted against the morning sun.

Silently, Illya attempted to stand up. His body was beginning to refuse his mental commands. He wanted so desperately to make a good impression, afraid that if this perspective buyer saw he was defective, unable to work, he would simply scout out the next. With a barely noticeable wince, he made it to his feet.

Napoleon looked him right in the eyes, but saw nothing - no recognition whatsoever. It was as though his soul had removed.

Respectfully, Illya lowered his gaze. Napoleon began speaking softly.

To Illya, the voice was a din slightly audible over the roaring in his head. The severely injured leg coupled with the infection that had set in caused him extreme pain. Heat radiated from his body. He looked down at the crowd and saw Nasir brandishing his riding crop. Illya recognized the warning. He shuddered ever so slightly and looked away, once again towards Napoleon. Sweat began pouring from him; his leg was throbbing and barely holding him up. He could feel the blood draining from his face. Taking a deep breath, Illya mustered whatever strength there was within him to appear strong.

It seemed customary for perspective buyers to handle the "merchandise," so Napoleon emulated, quietly speaking while he was checking him over. This stranger’s voice phased in and out with the roaring in Illya’s head.

"...looking for you for weeks...." Napoleon’s voice trailed off, as he patted Illya’s shoulders and upper arms. _Hmmm, bonier than usual._ Napoleon could feel him stiffen slightly while being touched.

"...get you out of here, Illya..." the voice trailed off again, while pressing the sides of Illya’s jaw and looking in his mouth. This time, the pale blue eyes lifted to look at Napoleon directly.

 _How do you know my name?_ Illya wanted to ask, but dared not. He lowered his eyes once more.

Moments later, the sale began. At the auctioneer’s request, the buyers stepped off the platform, away from the slaves. Napoleon discreetly checked his finances, and found he had the equivalency of two hundred dollars American. He prayed that no one else was interested in Illya, or he would have to find other means of rescuing him.

It seemed like an eternity, but finally, the auctioneer brought his attention to Illya. After a few comments about not being deceived by his slight build, the bidding began. No takers, just a few snickers among the crowd. Napoleon held back - his initial intuition was to accept whatever amount the bidding started at - get this ordeal over and done with - but instinct told him to cool his heels. The auctioneer reminded the buyers that this man was going for a bargain rate, but still no takers. He lowered the opening bid. At this point, Napoleon raised his hand. He felt like the immediate world was staring at him, knowing he was American and chuckling under their collective breath at his choice of men. The sale was completed, the price was paid, and Napoleon was handed the rope which bound Illya’s wrists.

They headed to the parking area. To avoid suspicion, Napoleon left the ropes intact and walked several paces in front of his purchase, playing the role of the new master. To Illya, it was expected.

Shortly after leaving the arena proper, the ropes tugged in Napoleon’s hands as Illya collapsed. He hurried to the inert body, taking off his burnoose and placing it under Illya’s sweat-soaked head. Napoleon checked his pulse and breathing - both shallow. He lifted the loose white shirt to quickly assess the injuries. Cuts and bruises, taut skin around the ribs; his back was especially bad, with wounds running under the waistband of the white trousers. Napoleon lowered the waistband. Seeing the extent of the injuries, he curled up his lip and winced.

To rouse him, Napoleon gently slapped his face. When that didn’t work, he took a bottle of water from his knapsack and began wetting Illya’s face and neck. Within moments, the blue eyes opened. He opened his mouth to speak, but stopped before uttering a word. Silently, he closed his mouth and eyes, shaking slightly.

"...you thirsty? Take a...." the new master’s voice trailed again. He squatted down behind Illya, lifting him to a sitting position and offered him the bottle of water. Two bound hands grasped the bottle. "Drink slowly....." But Illya wanted to gulp it down, get it into his parched mouth and throat as quickly as possible. He began to choke. "...take it easy..." A hand held the bottle while he drank, administering smaller quantities of water. When that bottle was emptied, Napoleon untied the ropes and then handed Illya another bottle of water from his knapsack.

"Are you feeling a little better?"

"Yes, thank you, Master," answered a small, raspy voice. There was no eye contact.

 _Master?_....Napoleon thought. Sounded strange. "Can you walk?"

Illya was breathing heavily, uncertain about what to answer. He moved his injured leg slightly, causing him to shudder and wince slightly. Napoleon sensed something was wrong.

Napoleon looked down at the leg and noticed a small spot of red beginning to appear on the white fabric. He gently laid Illya back down and without a word, removed a knife from his waistband. In one quick movement, he was hovering over the injured leg, knife in hand. Illya’s eyes widened in fear, then he shut them, turning his head away, bracing himself for the pain of having another knife cut through his leg. Napoleon caught sight if Illya’s reaction.

"I’m not going to hurt you, Illya. I just want to see how badly your leg is injured," he said softly.

Illya gathered his composure enough to tell Napoleon that they were the only clothes he owned, and if they were cut apart, he would have nothing.

"Don’t worry, I’ll get you more clothes," was the response as Napoleon cut open the pant leg, revealing a taped injury. Blood was beginning to ooze from under gray duct tape. He wanted to take off the tape to examine the wound, but he could see that Illya was in a lot of pain and decided to leave it alone.

"What happened?"

The pain and stress was taking its toll. Illya could feel his resistance weakening and began shaking again. Should he tell his new master about Nasir’s wife? Getting caught? Stealing food? Getting shot? He realized that Napoleon would eventually find out about the injury. "I was shot."

"Is the bullet still in there?"

Illya shrugged slightly.

As Napoleon began pulling his friend into a sitting position again, Illya’s attention diverted to a man carrying a riding crop. The small man was rushing to the parking area, constantly looking back over his shoulder at Napoleon and Illya, quickening his step when his gaze was returned.

"Who is that?" Napoleon asked, standing up to get a better look at the little man.

"That’s Nasir. He was my master before you," Illya replied weakly. He paused, collecting his thoughts. Stumbling to find the words, he finally said: "If you hurry you can catch him."

"Why would I do that?"

After a short pause, he replied slowly: "You bought me from him." He paused again to regain his composure. "You were robbed. I can hardly walk. I’m badly injured. If you catch up with him, make him give you your money back."

"Did Nasir do all this to you?"

Illya nodded. Napoleon felt an immediate hatred for that little man.

"Do you want to go back with him?"

Tears began to well in Illya’s eyes, but he quickly blinked them back and shook his head.

Strong yet gentle arms brought Illya to his feet.

"It’s settled then. You’re coming with me. After the doctor takes care of your wounds, you’ll be as good as new!" Napoleon assured him, keeping his eyes on Nasir as the little man unhitched his camel from a post, mounted it and trotted away.

"Doctor?"

"Yes."

Illya shook his head protesting slightly.

"What’s wrong?" Napoleon asked.

"I have no money...I can’t pay a doctor," Illya stammered.

"Don’t worry, UNCLE will take care of it."

Illya protested slightly, shaking his head. The new master gave Illya no option. "That’s very kind of him," he spoke softly.

Napoleon smiled at this man, his partner, his closest friend, whom he hadn’t seen in weeks. Now they were strangers. He half carried Illya to the Jeep.

Getting him inside the Jeep as painlessly as possible proved to be a challenge. Luckily, it was an open vehicle - no roof to maneuver under. Although Illya didn’t express his discomfort, Napoleon knew. He places his sunglasses and burnoose on Illya, hoping that would make him more comfortable.

After shutting the door, Napoleon got behind the wheel and started the engine. Once the motor was running, he pushed the "Tracker" button and an area map appeared. This was the first time he had driven a vehicle with this equipment. He had impatiently listened to the cursory instructions on how to use the new technology, and failed to absorb its capabilities. Napoleon’s sole reason for the temporary transfer to the Saudi Office was the hope of picking up on Illya’s trail, and seemingly trivial extraneous information was often overlooked. To his dismay, a red emergency light began blinking on the upper left corner of the console. This meant that an additional, non-UNCLE tracking device was in the vehicle. Keeping an eye on Illya, who seemed fascinated by this, he produced his communicator pen, opened it and requested Channel D.

"I found him, Mr. Waverly!" Napoleon reported.

"Illya?"

"Yes!"

"Where on earth was he?"

"At an auction."

Mr. Waverly slightly chuckled. Unlike him. "Rare books or records?"

"Uh - the other side of the auction block, sir...I bought him."

Silence.

"I’ll explain in my report. He’s badly hurt...I want to get him to headquarters immediately. He has a tracking device somewhere on him. I doubt it’s in his clothing, and I don’t want to move him until I get rid of it. Refresh my memory please."

"Reach under the console where the light is blinking..." Napoleon followed the directions. "...you’ll feel a small wand attached..." It was there, magnetically held in place. "...remove it and scan Illya with it. Check out muscle mass areas, such as the upper arm, shoulder, buttocks..." While quickly scanning Illya’s body, the wand beeped when the tracker was located. The sense of fascination was over, and the young blond man became fidgety. Napoleon smiled and reassured him that soon he would be taken care of.

"It’s in his upper left arm, Sir."

"You need to remove it, Mr. Solo. Look for the Jeep’s first aid box, and you should find a small vial of lidocaine with a screw-on cap."

Napoleon turned off the Jeep’s engine before moving around to the back of the Jeep to find the first aid box, and bringing it to back to the driver’s seat with him. "OK, I have it."

"You need to find the exact spot where the tracker was implanted."

Napoleon looked at a now terrified Illya. "I’m sorry I have to do this, Illya, but for your safety and mine, I have to remove this tracking device."

 _Tracking device?_ Illya looked understandably confused. While Napoleon tore the fabric on Illya’s left shoulder, he explained what he was doing.

"A tracking device lets someone trace your whereabouts. This Jeep has one so UNCLE knows where I am, and I can find my way back in the desert. The one in your arm was inserted by someone else."

Illya nodded slightly, listening while watching Napoleon cut the fabric.

Using the wand once more, Napoleon found the exact spot where the tracker had been placed. A fine-line scar was barely visible.

"I found it," Napoleon announced into the communicator.

"Now clean the area with alcohol...Next open the vial and press the tines around the area...."

Napoleon moved in a little closer held Illya’s left arm firmly "This might hurt a little, Illya. Try to stay still." Illya tried resisting, then realized it was useless. His new master was larger than he, and obviously a lot stronger. He obediently nodded. The tines caused virtually no pain as they pierced his skin. When he finished, Napoleon slightly dug a fingernail in the area of the lidocaine, and asked Illya if he felt anything. No.

"The area is numb, Sir. What next?"

"There’s a thick white pouch with a red band around it. Open it carefully; it contains a scalpel and tweezers...Make a small incision and use the tweezers to remove the tracker. They’re generally close to the surface of the skin, so you shouldn’t have to go too deep."

He watched Illya’s expression of fear as he brought the scalpel to his upper arm. Illya stiffened and began pulling away, breathing heavily.

"You won’t feel a thing. I’ve numbed the area, Illya."

"Please...no!"

"I have no choice. Trust me." The solemnity in his voice made its impact in Illya. He stopped protesting.

With a firm grip on Illya’s upper arm, Napoleon made the small incision in the exact spot of the previous one. He held a piece of gauge just below the cut to absorb the blood. Momentarily looking up from this procedure, Napoleon noticed that Illya was watching with morbid fascination. After the cut was complete, Napoleon gently pulled back the sides of the incision, looking for the tracer. Mr. Waverly was correct - the small plastic-coated chip was neatly tucked in the muscle fibers near the surface. It was then carefully removed with the tweezers. He immediately pushed the two sides of the cut together with one hand while rummaging through the first aid kit for a butterfly bandage. After locating one, he quickly opened it using his one free hand and his teeth, removed the plastic strips covering the adhesive and placed it over the cut.

"Done!" he announced into his communicator. Napoleon started up the Jeep’s engine. "I’m going to get rid of this and then get Illya to headquarters. Notify them we’re on our way...and that we need immediate medical help when we arrive."

"Yes, Mr. Solo...and job well done." The communicator went dead. Napoleon fished in his knapsack looking for a small scrap of food. He found part of a leftover roll. After tucking the transmitter inside the roll and tossing it out of the Jeep, Napoleon sped away, assuming some small critter would find it, eat it, wander around the desert for a while before it depositing it.

"That was Uncle Waverly, Master?" Illya asked.

Napoleon cringed at his new title. "Hmmm, I guess you could say that. Illya, I have a name. It’s Napoleon Solo. You don’t need to call me ’Master’."

He nodded as he began watching Napoleon drive the Jeep. This was foreign to him. Illya observed how the accelerator, brake and clutch petals were used, and despite the haze caused by the pain, he tried to figure out which foot was used when, and for what purpose.

Noticing this, Napoleon asked if he’d ever driven a stick shift before.

"No, Master, I’ve never been in a car before." His voice was getting weaker.

The ride was bumpy. Illya’s white-knuckled hands gripped the sides of the seat. The burnoose swept back with the wind, revealing the straining veins on the side of his neck. His now shallow breathing was interrupted by slightly audible grunts as the Jeep jostled him.

"We’re about fifteen minutes away. Can you hold on a little longer?"

Illya stiffly nodded.

* * * * *

After what seemed like hours, the low rise buildings of a small town appeared on the horizon. The whole building was cleverly concealed as an import/export office building. From the outside, it was simply another place of business. Despite its innocuous appearance, security was stringent. The varied entrances and exits were well hidden and inaccessible to the general public.

About a kilometer from the town, Napoleon slowed the Jeep, steering around to the back of a sand dune. The side of the dune appeared to open up, allowing the vehicle to enter. To eliminate tire tracks entering the dune, an automatic underground hydraulic lift lowered tire track grooves, veering away from the entrance, giving the appearance that a vehicle simply kept on going.

Once inside, Napoleon turned off the engine and jumped out of the Jeep. He ran around to the passenger side, opening the door to lift Illya out of the seat. Napoleon’s old friend, Dr. Yossi Shapiro, was the administering doctor. He stopped Napoleon before removing Illya from the car, hoping to avoid further injury.

Dr. Shapiro crouched down by the open passenger door to check Illya’s vital signs. Illya became agitated, pulling back from the doctor’s attempts to look him over.

"Dr. Yossi is an old friend of mine, Illya. He’s here to help you. Settle down and let him do his job." The voice was commanding and Illya didn’t dare disobey. A quick check of his vital signs revealed a racing heartbeat, labored breathing, and elevated blood pressure.

Finally, Napoleon and the doctor lifted him out of the passenger seat and placed him on a gurney. Despite the pain, Illya dared not cry out in fear of being beaten. The doctor was about to have Illya lie on his back.

"Don’t lay him on his back..." Dr. Shapiro then attempted to place Illya on his stomach. "No, no, no - not on his stomach. He has a bullet wound in the front of his right thigh." With that information, he was positioned Illya lying on his left side. Dr. Shapiro removed round tipped scissors from his medical bag and cut away additional fabric from Illya’s pant leg.

"I know that duct tape is versatile, but this is ridiculous."

He next cut open Illya’s shirt. Illya started to protest, but remembered what Napoleon had told him about the clothes. Dr. Shapiro’s fingers probed Illya’s abdomen and belly. His cursory examination showed nothing direly wrong. The muscles tighten and breathing accelerated upon his touch.

"Does this hurt when I press?"

Illya was almost gasping. He began sweating profusely, and curled up into a fetal position, scanning the area looking for Napoleon, who stood behind the gurney.

"I’m...not....." Illya was shaking, becoming increasingly agitated.

 _This can wait,_ thought Dr, Shapiro. He laid the scissors on the gurney. "Shhh, relax. It’s all right. I’m going to give you something for the pain." The doctor tried to keep his voice calm, yet nothing seemed to help. He opened his medical bag, taking out a hypodermic needle and a clear vial of medicine. Illya nervously watched as the syringe was filled. 

As the doctor neared, Illya grabbed the scissors and clumsily slipped off the gurney. Using unsteady legs, he limped backwards. Dr. Shapiro attempted to approach as non-threateningly as possible. Illya brandished the scissors for protection as Dr. Shapiro came closer, his main focus on the syringe.

"Illya, no!" Napoleon could almost predict Illya’s next move, but he was too late.

As the doctor neared, Illya pushed the gurney into him in a meager attempt to gain distance. The syringe slipped from his grasp during the collision, shattering against a wall. Illya looked around wildly while backing away. Napoleon was slowly moving nearer, gently reassuring him that he was going to be safe, trying not to alarm him even more.

As he walked towards Illya, Napoleon held out his hand toward the doctor, silently asking for another syringe of pain killer. Despite a painfully throbbing leg, Illya was still backing up, trying to get away. Eventually, he backed into to a wall, brandishing the scissors once again in desperation. Without even looking for an escape route, he slid to the left, cornering himself. He was trapped. Napoleon quickened his final steps so they were face to face almost instantly.

"Illya, drop the scissors."

"Please, Master...no...I...I...I’m sorry...." Realizing his actions, and fearing the consequences, Illya dropped the scissors, then closed his eyes and turned his head away, anticipating a blow. Napoleon gently touched the Russian’s face.

"Illya, I’m not going to hurt you. This is going to take the pain away," he said while taking hold of Illya’s left arm and placing it between his own arm and body in preparation for the injection. Illya tried pulling away, shaking his head ’No’, once again weakly resisting. He was no match for his new master, and finally succumbed, allowing Napoleon to inject the clear liquid into his upper arm.

As soon as all the fluid emptied from the syringe, Illya’s legs collapsed under him and he slid down the wall, crumpling on the floor. Napoleon shot a glance to Dr. Shapiro, shrugging his shoulders.

The pain killer was designed to work within thirty seconds. By the time Napoleon asked if the pain was gone, he noticed Illya’s shaking and labored breathing had somewhat subsided.

"Feeling a little better?" he asked, crouching next to his friend.

Illya weakly nodded. He shifted his body a bit, apparently surprised he could move. Napoleon and Dr. Shapiro helped him up, brought him back to the gurney and wheeled him out of the parking area through a series of tunnels, until they reached a small but well equipped infirmary.

Dr. Yossi Shapiro was a Sabra, born and bred in Israel. As a young adult, he trained with the Israeli Army as a medic. His record was exemplary. Intelligent, brave, quick thinking. As his tour of duty was coming to an end, Alexander Waverly became aware of this amazing young man and scouted him out as a perspective employee. Yossi’s ambition was to become a doctor, but his finances couldn’t provide the education he really wanted. Scholarships were difficult to obtain. Mr. Waverly pulled a few strings and Yossi gained admission to Harvard Medical School, where he decided to specialize in Internal Medicine. Graduating at the top of his class, he could have opened a practice anywhere he chose, but he honored his commitment to UNCLE and began his medical practice in their Mideast headquarters.

UNCLE was not let down. Their investment in Yossi proved to be an asset. This brilliant doctor spearheaded research projects, developed pharmaceuticals and antidotes when needed, in addition to dabbling in studies of human behavior. He became the medical jack-of-all-trades wherever he worked. With his skills, he was able to do the jobs of several specialists.

He and Illya had hit it off from the moment they met several years before. They were very similar. Both men were scientists, inquisitive, brilliant, creative. Illya spoke dozens of languages, including dialect variations, as did Yossi. Their major difference was in their personalities. While Illya was quiet and private, Yossi was outgoing and very charming. He could charm anyone. Yossi was slightly taller than Illya with dark curly hair and a perpetually tanned Mideast complexion. He was not overly handsome, but did possess an earthiness.

Napoleon developed a different relationship with Yossi. They never discussed ethereal concepts or abstract scientific issues - Solo knew that was beyond his realm of thinking - _Leave that to Illya,_ he always thought. Yossi, like Napoleon, had varied intelligences and interests, and always enjoyed each others’ company.

This visit was difference. It took a while for Yossi to fully appreciate the extent of Illya’s condition. Their encounter in the parking area did not provide an accurate assessment. In the past, he’d seen the two agents at their worst, but they maintained their mental capacities. On many of these occasions, he virtually fought with them to remain at his infirmary for examination. If he was successful, it was even harder keeping them there to recuperate. They generally left earlier than medically indicated, medications in hand, claiming that they would finish recuperating when or if they had the time.

Today, Yossi was alarmed at Illya’s dullness. The spark was no longer there. He was complacent. Too complacent. After wheeling the gurney into the examination room, he and Napoleon began undressing Illya. Feeling too weak to resist, yet visibly uneasy with the whole situation, Illya allowed the two men to remove his clothes. Yossi immediately covered Illya with a clean sheet, helping him maintain whatever remaining dignity he still had.

"How are you holding up, Illya?" the doctor asked. No answer. "Can you hear me?" In preparation for inserting an IV tube, he began wrapping a tourniquet around Illya’s left upper arm, looking for a good vein. When he found one, he removed the tourniquet.

"Yes." His voice was distant. Illya skeptically watched what Yossi was doing.

"When’s the last time you saw a doctor?" Yossi was fishing for clues to Illya’s current condition. He began washing the injured agent’s left arm. Illya slowly shook his head and shrugged. Yossi needed the Russian’s attention diverted from the next procedure. Illya’s reaction to the injection was extreme, so Yossi assumed that the reaction to having an IV lead placed in his forearm would be no different.

"Are you from around here?" Yossi asked as continued scrubbing off weeks of sweat and dirt from Illya’s arm.

Illya shrugged.

"How about your family?"

"Family?"

"Yes - are your parents nearby? Do you have any brothers or sisters?"

Illya thought for a moment then slowly shook his head. Yossi only marginally knew Illya’s past, but he was curious whether or not the new persona paralleled with the old.

When the arm was finally scrubbed clean, Dr. Shapiro began spreading betadine on the inner forearm. Illya continued staring as the doctor worked. Yossi opened a drawer where the IV leads were stored, bringing out the a needle and tubing. Illya once again breathing heavily at the sight of the medical paraphernalia. He looked around for Napoleon. Sensing Illya’s stress level elevating, Napoleon put a calming hand on his shoulder, assuring him that this wasn’t going to be painful.

"How old are you?" Dr. Shapiro was still attempting to distract Illya.

"I....don’t know."

"Guestimate...about how old would you say?"

Illya shook his head.

"20...30...40?"

"Maybe 20...I’m not sure."

"Now I’m going to pierce your skin and put an IV lead into your arm," Yossi matter-of-factly said before actually beginning. "This will not hurt you. Napoleon gave you a very strong pain killer, so you won’t feel this at all. Do you understand?"

Illya’s eyes had widened, his breathing quickened.

"Illya, so you understand me?"

He nodded curtly.

Yossi looked at Napoleon and nodded, the signal to hold Illya while the IV was being inserted. As soon as the doctor began, Illya bucked, pulling his left arm away. Yossi grasped Illya’s wrist, holding it against the examining table. Napoleon tightened his hold. Illya was trapped, unable to move. For the first time, he began screaming, begging for them to stop. Despite Illya’s violent thrashing about, neither of the men would release their grips. Within moments, his strength gave out and the trashing stopped. Illya lay panting loudly while his whole body shook. He looked nervously from one of his captors to the other, unable to regain composure.

Napoleon loosened his grip slightly, hoping that this would calm down Illya a little. He placed his hand on his friend’s forehead, speaking softly.

"The doctor needs to put this IV line in your arm. If you won’t stay still, we’ll have to use restraints."

Illya’s eyes were wide, fearful. He shook his head. Napoleon didn’t know if that indicated a negative response, an understanding to avoid the restraints, or Illya’s perception that the little trust he gained in his new master was just breached.

Yossi decided to appeal to Illya’s former inquisitive nature.

"Do you know what an IV does, Illya?" he asked.

The Russian agent turned his gaze to Yossi, shaking his head.

"With this tube, I can hydrate you...fill your bloodstream with fluid...plus any other medication you need. You’re dehydrated, malnourished and badly wounded. You obviously have a major infection coursing through your body and you’re running a fever. The only way I can treat these effectively is to administer them right into your veins."

Dr. Shapiro wasn’t sure exactly how much of this information was actually absorbed. That didn’t matter. It seemed to appease Illya somewhat. "I’m going to try it again. Relax your arm."

As the doctor attempted to inserting the IV lead again, Illya pulled away. Napoleon caught his right arm before the fisted hand made contact with Yossi’s chin. In one swift movement, Napoleon managed to flip him over on to his belly, locking his right arm behind him. Illya tried to hide his feelings of despair as he resigned himself to another abusive master.

Yossi moved around the other side of the table. He took Illya’s left arm, rubbed a little more betadine on it, and when he was sure that there was no more resistance, began inserting the IV lead. The dehydration made it difficult. He’d hoped for a plumper vein. His caught sight of Illya’s expressionless face watching everything he was doing.

"Napoleon, has he had any water since you found him?"

"Yes...almost a liter."

"He kept it down?"

"Uh-huh."

"Good. His veins are hard to find since he’s so dehydrated. At least he...Great! Got it!" With that, Yossi pulled the needle out. Illya strained to watch as he carefully taped the shunt to his inner arm, attached the tubing and twisted them into loops before taping them as well. A soft plastic bottle of dextrose and water was attached and a slow drip began flowing into Illya’s veins. Illya remained quiet, unmoving. Dr. Shapiro then added an antibiotic flow to the IV.

"Illya, I’m letting go of your arm. Relax, he’s finished now," Napoleon announced as he loosened his hold on Illya. He and Yossi turned Illya over on his back. With direct eye contact, Solo instructed Illya to leave the IV line in place.

The cold metal of a stethoscope touched Illya’s chest, causing his muscles to tense.

"I’m just checking your heartbeat," the doctor assured. "Hmmm, you seem a little agitated. Do you want to listen?"

Before Illya could answer, Yossi removed the stethoscope from around his neck and placed the earpieces in Illya’s ears. His eyes widened at the amplified sound. Yossi placed the scope on Illya’s chest. His eyebrows furrowed when he heard the steady thump.

"That’s your heartbeat. Listen for a moment and try to settle down. You’ll hear it start beating slower." As Illya relaxed, his heart stopped racing.

"Want to hear something else?" Yossi placed the scope on Illya’s belly. He heard mild rumbling. "This is because you’re hungry. Your stomach is asking for food. And wait..." The stethoscope was placed in Illya’s abdomen. This was a different rumble. "These are bowel sounds. They’re good...it means that things are moving along just fine inside." A slight pause. "When have you eaten last?"

Illya shrugged and shook his head, unsure what to answer.

"Today? Yesterday? Last week? Last month?"

"This morning."

"A lot? A little?"

"A little."

Using the stethoscope became a pleasant distraction for Illya. He placed the head of various parts of his upper body, listening to this internal sounds. When he listened to the pulse in his neck, he nodded slightly.

"Sounds the same as your heartbeat, doesn’t it?" Napoleon asked. "They’re all connected."

Yossi cleared his throat. "OK, now - let’s get down to serious business, gentlemen. Here’s the game plan. At the moment, I’m flying solo...." Yossi turned his gaze to Napoleon. "Oh, I’m sorry...you’re Solo..." Napoleon rolled his eyes. "My nephew, Ari, will be here shortly. He’s an intern at Tel Aviv Hospital, but he’s on holiday and staying with me for a few weeks. When Mr. Waverly told me you’d be coming in, I phoned Ari and asked him to lend me a hand. He does that periodically. UNCLE has granted him limited security clearance so he can work here with me if I need help. It’s normally rather quiet at this headquarters, but I think the kind of care Illya’s going to need requires more than one of me." Yossi began removing the duct tape from Illya’s wounded leg. Luckily, Nasir had placed fabric over the wound, so the duct tape didn’t do more damage to the injured flesh. He grimaced slightly at the sight. He cleaned around the wound, getting as much of the tape’s residue off as possible.

Yossi crouched down next to Illya.

"When were you shot?"

"Last night."

"Is the bullet still in your leg?"

"I don’t know," he answered softly. "Muhammed tried to take it out."

"Muhammed?"

"Nasir’s brother-in-law."

"Was he able to remove the bullet?"

"I blacked out...I’m not sure."

"I’m going to x-ray your leg..." _He doesn’t know what an x-ray is, does he?_ Yossi thought. "...um, an x-ray takes a picture of the inside of your body...and then I’m going to draw a little blood from your arm. I need to see what’s going on. By the time I’m done, Ari should be here." He stood up. "Now, the bloodwork requires a needle. Please, I don’t want to risk life and limb getting a blood sample from you. Can you humor me and let me do my job?"

Illya nodded.

"Great!"

Dr. Shapiro took several x-rays of the injured leg, then took out a syringe for the bloodwork. He watched Illya’s expression as he prepared for drawing the blood. The blond agent appeared apprehensive, but not overly upset. Yossi cleaned off Illya’s inner forearm with alcohol, and before piercing the skin, looked Illya in the eye and asked if he was ready. Illya nodded. He didn’t feel a thing, not the prick or the blood being withdrawn.

"In the future, this should be easier to do. Several colleagues and I are working on a vacuum tube system which should revolutionize the phlebodomist profession," Dr. Shapiro said as the blood was filling the syringe. "Aah, all done." The needle slid out of the arm.

Yossi looked at his watch. "Ari should be here momentarily. I’m going to finish cleaning up around your leg and then wrap it in a waterproof bandage. Napoleon, you and Ari can clean him up. When you bathe him, keep his leg as dry as possible. I’m also going to put a waterproof bandage around the IV...do not get that wet! We don’t want to replace that, do we?"

As the waterproof bandages were being applied, a young man, obviously Ari, entered the room. Average height, dark curly hair, medium build, with a big toothy smile.

"Hello, Uncle Yossi!" he shouted as he entered the infirmary. They embraced, then Yossi turned him towards Napoleon and Illya, making the introductions.

"This is my nephew, Ari Finklestein, my sister’s son," Yossi beamed as he grasped the young man’s cheeks between his thumb and fingers. "A chip off the old block, eh? He’s going to be a doctor like his favorite Uncle! I just love him to death!" The death grip was released and Yossi gave his nephew a big, loud kiss on the cheek. "Ari, these are two of my friends, Napoleon Solo and Illya Kur..." _Oops, maybe he doesn’t have a last name now._.."uh, from the desert."

Ari came over and shook Napoleon’s hand, then extended his hand to Illya who didn’t know how to respond. Ari didn’t skip a beat, and grasped Illya’s right hand, gently shaking it. "How are you feeling, Illya?" Overwhelmed, Illya simply shrugged.

"What can I do to help out?" he asked.

"Well, I’ve taken blood samples and x-rays. I’m going to work on those...the two of you can clean him up."

Young Dr. Ari nodded as he brought the gurney next to the examining table.

After moving Illya on to the gurney, they went through two sets of doors. The first one led to a dressing area, with sinks, scrubs, blankets and sheets. The second set led to a sterile looking room devoid of any warmth. In the center of the room was a metal table that had a round opening at one end. Beneath the table was a drain in the floor. A series of bright spotlights hung from the ceiling, and on one wall, there were three large square doors with handles that reminded Napoleon of his Aunt Tillie’s old Frigidaire. The morgue! A chill ran down Napoleon’s spine while Ari seemed totally unaffected by it at all.

Napoleon looked over to Illya, who shivered noticeably. The room was extremely cold, and Illya, having only a thin sheet covering him, felt it the most.

Ari raised the thermostat and turned on the overhead lights, then brought out two waterproof aprons, handing one to Napoleon. "OK, would you prefer to do his hair or nails?" Ari chuckled a bit.

"You definitely ARE your uncle’s nephew," Napoleon sighed. "I’ll do hair, you can do nails."

They lifted Illya on to the cold metal table. As he laid down, his back arched from the cold surface.

"I’m surprised he has that much sensation. I gave him a hefty dose of the pain killer," Napoleon mentioned.

Ari turned on the water, regulating the temperature.

"The clear stuff? That’s top of the line. Attacks the part of the brain which senses pain, but allows other sensations to be felt. He’ll basically feel heat, cold, hunger, the urge to relieve himself...just to name a few. The sensations may be dulled slightly, but he’ll still have them."

While the water was getting warmer, Ari brought over soap, shampoo and wash clothes. By now, the overhead lights warmed their work area, making it more comfortable. Illya’s eyes were tightly closed, trying to obliterate the brightness.

"Illya, we’re going to clean you up now," Napoleon said quietly. Illya still shivered. Napoleon assumed it was from the cold.

"Stop...no...wh-what do you want..." Illya gasped. He opened his eyes slightly, seeing a figure silhouetted against the strong lights above. Illya feebly tried to move the silhouetted figure away. "Let me go...You’re hurting me...I..I..I want to go home."

Napoleon now realized that his friend was hallucinating or reliving something that happened to him. Ari came over; Solo motioned him to stay back a bit.

"Illya, where are you?"

"THRUSH...captured me...," he then moaned loudly. "You’re hurting me. Stop!..." his voice trailed off, quietly pleading "..please stop!"

"You’re safe, Illya. You’re not with Thrush."

Illya shook his head.

"Illya!"

Breathing heavily, Illya opened his eyes slightly, but after still seeing only the silhouette, he looked around wildly for an escape. In the process, he saw the IV in his left arm, and brought his right hand over to remove it.

Napoleon grabbed his wrist, securing it away from the IV. The senior agent now realized that Illya couldn’t see who he was - the light was blinding him, and probably felt he was a THRUSH captive again.

The lights weren’t too far above their heads. Napoleon reached up and diverted the beam of blinding light while still securing the arm. In a moment, Illya recognized the surroundings.

Napoleon brushed the damp hair off Illya’s brow. "Calm down, Illya. It’s me, Napoleon. You’re safe here. What just happened?"

Illya simply stared at him, unsure what to say.

"Shhh, you’re going to feel better soon. You’re safe. We’re going to start bathing you now." The blond agent weakly nodded in agreement. His body relaxed somewhat.

Ari and Napoleon began to work silently, welcoming the calm. Napoleon wasn’t sure how much information Ari was privvy to, so he chose not to disclose information about Illya’s capture to the young man.

"Well, he certainly got himself an even tan, didn’t he?" Ari commented. "Unusual for someone this fair. To top it off, he’s tan all over. With no signs of sunburn."

After Illya’s hair was wet, Napoleon began massaging shampoo into his scalp, curling up his nose at the scent.

"Couldn’t your uncle get anything that smells better?" Napoleon asked.

"Oh, that not only cleans and refreshes hair, it leaves the hair bouncy and vermin-free," Ari replied with a twinkle in his eye. "Brace yourself. He may need two applications."

After finishing, the three of them emerged from the morgue soaking wet. Ari and Napoleon placed a clean sheet over a shivering Illya then dried themselves as best possible in the vestibule before returning to the infirmary. Ari found a warm blanket to cover Illya.

Within moments, Yossi returned.

"You two look like drowned rats. There are some dry scrubs in the next room. Get changed before you both end up as my patients."

After they left, Yossi looked down at Illya and explained that he was about to clean up all his wounds. "If you feel any pain at all...ANY pain, let me know. This is no time to be stoic..." the words left his mouth before he realized that Illya had no idea what me meant. He wanted to inform Illya that his track record as a patient was pretty paltry, but then realized that this was neither the time nor place."Turn you on your left side for a bit. Work with me now, all right?"

After an effortless turn, Dr. Shapiro exposed the wounded leg and removed the waterproof bandage. Nice and dry.

Ari and Napoleon returned in dry clothing.

"Normally, this would be your cue to leave, Napoleon, but under the circumstances, I’d appreciate it if you would stay. Can you stomach this?"

"Uh - I think so. Illya’s always been the one who grooves on blood and gore...Oops."

"We’ve both done it," Yossi chuckled. His attention turned to Illya next. "The good news is the bullet was removed last night; the bad news is it left you with an extremely nasty infection. Your white blood cell count...hmmm, what do you know from white blood cells anyway?...well, they’re very high. Making you pretty sick. I’m going to keep you on high doses of antibiotics for a while." He pointed to the IV. "Are you leaving it alone?"

"Yes."

Yossi turned on a tape recorder. Ari seemed unconcerned, but Napoleon raised an eyebrow questioning this.

"I have reports to write when I’m finished, and it’s easier for me to remember what I’ve done if I can listen to a recording. I can barely remember what I had for breakfast this morning, let alone all the things I do in here."

Napoleon seated himself facing Illya. His goal was to obscure the view of what the doctors were doing, but the blond’s fascination with the procedures prompted him to move his chair around to the other side of the examination table. He still sat close, allowing Illya to observe when he wanted.

Illya didn’t want to talk much. He preferred the quiet, obviously lost in his thoughts, whatever thoughts he had at this point. Both Yossi and Ari were careful to explain everything they were doing, for Illya’s benefit as well as for the recorded notes. As Yossi began probing the bullet wound, Napoleon felt Illya stiffen.

"Did you feel that?" Napoleon whispered.

Illya’s eyes darted towards his new master, and he nodded.

Napoleon understood. "Yossi, I think he needs something for that leg."

Ari filled a syringe with another clear liquid, and handed it to his uncle.

"Illya, this is for a nerve block. I’m going to inject it into the major nerve which goes down your leg. You may feel a slight sting when I hit pay dirt...er, get the nerve...but that will go away immediately."

Dr. Shapiro stood up and walked closer to Illya’s hip. He lifted the blanket and began feeling around for the exact spot he planned to insert the needle. Yossi held the syringe needle-up and tapped the tube with his finger. Illya’s eyes were still riveted on him.

"This gets rid of any trapped air inside. Not THAT could kill you if it gets in your system," he explained.

It did sting. The sensation lasted only a second or two, and then the injured leg felt no more pain. Illya nodded in satisfaction when Yossi had finished.

This type of situation also gave Yossi an excellent opportunity to be his nephew’s teacher. The explanations of his procedures became increasingly more medically-oriented, and the more involved they got, the less Illya understood. They discussed in depth the trauma around the leg wound, and how appears that additional injury occurred after the bullet was removed. Ari deduced that the long striated cuts and bruises around the opening of the wound indicated being struck with something narrow.

 _That bastard beat him with his riding crop after shooting him!_ Napoleon was livid.

The wound was cleaned and sutured shut, leaving a small area open for drainage. They next turned Illya on to his stomach and their attention to the injuries on his back. Mostly bruises, but several cuts which needed cleansing. It was even too late for stitches. Unable to watch what was going on, Illya decided to close his eyes for awhile. He didn’t want to sleep; he’d rather hear what was happening. Each time he dozed off he forced himself awake.

Ari began by checking Illya’s scalp.

"Did I get rid of all the vermin?" Napoleon chuckled.

"Yup! Great job! We could use a man like you..." his voice trailed off as he pulled up the hair at the nape of Illya’s neck. "Ooh, Uncle Yossi, take a look at these."

"Puncture wounds. Maybe 4, 5 weeks old. Wasn’t that about when he was taken captive?" asked Yossi. "There’s only one reason anyone would administer a shot there...to paralyze the body. It has to be carefully injected into the spinal cord. One slight move...off center even the smallest amount, and the paralysis is NOT caused by the drug...and it becomes permanent. He was lucky."

Yossi moved to question Illya face to face.

"Do you remember getting injections in the back of your neck?"

"No."

Napoleon tried to coax Illya into sleeping a bit, to no avail. _Still stubborn._

Being thorough, Yossi wanted to check over every inch of Illya. While checking Illya’s buttocks for injuries, he separated the cheeks, looked at Napoleon and disclosed that his patient had been raped.

Napoleon looked down at Illya, who was clueless about the conversation. Rape. Just another medical term, he assumed. The senior agent looked back at Yossi and asked if he was sure. Ari explained that there was too much tearing for it to be consensual. This was definitely forced. He noticed Napoleon’s face reddening slightly, and asked if he was feeling all right.

"I’m fine," he huffed.

Napoleon was annoyed at his own lack of self control. He suddenly felt overwhelmed with a sense of anger and helplessness. His friend, his partner for many years was lying here beaten within an inch of his life, and he had felt responsible. It was just one night’s indiscretion. 

During the past few weeks, he replayed the scenes leading up to Illya’s capture through his head during idle moments throughout the day and many sleepless nights, second-guessing himself. After the abduction, he tore himself up inside. Now he’d found him, partially by gut instinct, partially by luck. Increasingly, he discovered more and more about Illya’s treatment with Nasir as the two doctors treated him. The more he heard, the angrier he became. Nasir - who the hell was he anyway. A THRUSH operative? - he would check. A little, weasly nobody who bought himself a slave and exerted his power over this unfortunate individual? All the wounds that Yossi and Ari found appeared to be inflicted, not defensive. Did he even bother to fight back? Was he able to? Surely Illya could have escaped from this awful little man. He’d lived by his wits before, why not now? What if...what if....?

"...turn him on his back now. Napoleon?" No response. "Napoleon?"

"Huh..."

"Are you handling this?"

Napoleon absentmindedly nodded. "I’m just trying to put some of the pieces together."

"We’re almost done, Mr. Solo," said Ari. He walked over to Illya, noting that he was still awake. "We’ll have you out of here shortly, Illya. Maybe another half hour."

The rest of the exam was easier. The majority of the cuts and bruises were on his back and legs; at least Nasir had the common sense not to cause excessive internal injuries. Illya watched as they neared his abdomen, pressing, probing. He flushed and squirmed a bit as they neared his groin.

"Illya, don’t worry, we’re doctors. It’s nothing we haven’t seen before," Yossi chided as he noticed Illya’s discomfort. But his face turned serious when he saw the bruising around the front of the hips and groin. "This must have been very painful, wasn’t it?"

Illya lowered his gaze and quietly answered "Yes."

"The same type of marks?" Napoleon wanted to know. "Long, thin bruises?"

Yossi nodded.

Napoleon placed his hand reassuringly on Illya’s shoulder and sat down, helpless for the moment. He knew one day that he and Nasir would meet, if not by chance, by choice. It angered him that he wanted revenge; this was not the reaction of a good agent. One day…


	2. Chapter 2

Drs. Shapiro and Finklestein rolled the gurney into a hospital room. Mideast Headquarter’s only one. The room contained two beds with an overstuffed chair between them. It was fully equipped with the latest medical equipment, monitors and a security camera.

"First of all, you have to stay off that leg for a few days...that means total bed rest. Anything you need, we’ll bring to you...food, medicine, dirty magazines," instructed Yossi. "Secondly, you must get some sleep. With all the painkillers and medications we’ve given you, you should have been out like a light long ago. Don’t fight it. Understand?"

Illya nodded, attempting to sit up to get off the gurney.

"No...no..where do you think you’re going?" Ari asked.

"You instructed me to go to sleep..." He tried slipping off the gurney again.

"Where do you plan to go? Outside? Do you think we expect you to sleep outside?" Yossi joked.

"Yes."

Dr. Shapiro motioned for Ari to assist him in putting Illya in the bed on the left. "I was only kidding, my friend. No, of course we don’t expect you to sleep outside. It’s too hot, and besides, we’ll track in too much sand each time we have to check on you."

No response. This made perfect sense. _Typical Illya,_ thought Napoleon. Always the realist.

"Now get some rest." Yossi was adamant.

Illya nodded. He looked the two doctors squarely in their eyes and thanked them.

Napoleon checked his watch. It was only 6:30 in the evening. It felt like midnight. He was totally exhausted, but too worked up to sleep, too tired to do anything productive. Illya, on the other hand, settled into the bed and began dozing right away. Finally, he looked peaceful and comfortable. For a while, Napoleon sat in the chair, watching his friend. The new security camera perched above the door caught his attention. It had a small red light above the lens, which illuminated whenever the camera was on. He cringed at this invasion of privacy, but understood the need for it.

After a while, Napoleon slipped out of the room and headed to the communications room, where he finally checked in with Mr. Waverly to make his initial report. All the incidents of the day would have to be put in writing, but that could wait until later. He chuckled to himself - he usually pushed that job off on Illya, who didn’t seem to mind the paperwork as much as he. Unfortunately, Illya was the subject of the paperwork this time.

Mr. Waverly’s face appeared on the screen within seconds. "Good grief, Mr. Solo, it looks as though you were the one dragged through the mud, not Illya."

Napoleon made a face, not realizing he looked so disheveled.

"Despite being practically beaten to a pulp, Illya will physically be good as new one of these days."

"You don’t sound particularly hopeful."

"To put it bluntly, Sir, it appears that Illya’s brain had been sucked out of his head, and replaced with a new, but not improved one. I found him at a slave auction. He honestly thinks he’s a slave. He has no idea who I am. To him, I’m just his new master."

"Is Dr. Schwenk available to make an assessment? I assume he’s still at the Mideast office."

"I haven’t seen him. "

"Has Illya been able to give any indication concerning where he was, or what happened?"

"Not really. The only time he gave any input into his captivity was when we were cleaning him up. He must have felt he was in Thrush again. Other than that, he’s fairly complacent. He only reacts is when he feels threatened or in pain."

"Well, see what you can find out."

"Yes, Sir."

"Oh...and get some rest." A rare moment of compassion from the Old Man.

* * * * *

Napoleon ate a light meal and picked up a newspaper, then headed back to the hospital room. He settled in the chair. With his feet raised up on Illya’s bed, he began reading the newspaper. A short while later, Yossi entered the room, carrying a few small boxes of medical supplies, a shopping sack with several cans of juice, and a tall, thin brown bag. He placed them on a food tray then walked over to Illya’s bedside, checking his vital signs. Once satisfied with the results, he made sure the IV drip was sufficient and removed an empty antibiotics IV bag. Yossi checked his watch. It had been almost four hours since Illya had been given the painkiller. He opened one of the boxes, took out a prepared hypodermic needle and slowly injected the contents into the IV line.

"He should be comfortable until about midnight."

"Thanks, Yossi. I really appreciate all you and Ari have done for him."

"It’s unsettling seeing him like this. In all honesty, I’m still waiting for him to bolt out of hear and leave on his own volition, like he usually does," commented Yossi. "I’m trying to figure what kind of altered state he’s in."

"Altered state? What do you mean?"

"He’s been missing for how long? Five weeks? Six weeks?"

"The puncture marks on his neck were probably used as a means to break him. Render him helpless then do whatever they want. I doubt it was pain free. They somehow managed to suppress every memory he had."

"Suppress, not eradicate?"

"It’s easier to suppress. Unless actual gray cells are removed, or the brain suffers traumatic injury, they still store information. If that information is contained or suppressed, new information can be introduced, and the victim can be molded however.... I think that’s what happened to Illya."

"What’s next?"

"If this was a movie, a sharp crack on the head would jar him back into reality. Unfortunately, it really doesn’t work that way. I’d love to find out, though. It may have been introduced chemically through all the drugs they’d probably administered, or through conditioning, or both."

"Mr. Waverly suggested that Dr. Schwenk evaluate him."

"Schwenk? That ratty little man? Too stuffy for me. Luckily, he’s on holiday at the moment. He would have a field day with this case." Yossi sighed. "Right now, though, all I want to do is put my feet up and have a glass of wine. Care to join me?"

Napoleon was in definite agreement. Yossi placed the boxes of supplies inside locked cabinets, then took paper cups from the dispenser, pulled a bottle of chardonney from the brown bag and poured the wine.

* * * * *

It was almost 11 pm when Napoleon finally fell asleep. He spent an hour or so reading the newspaper after Yossi left, and once fatigue finally set in, decided not to fight it. He climbed into the second bed, covered himself with the blanket, and dozed off. The sound of Ari coming in to check on Illya woke him momentarily, and after seeing the young doctor leave, he fell asleep once more, satisfied that Illya was doing well.

_A truck pulled up to the dirty gray tent. The driver got out, walked around the back and dropped the tailgate. In the early light of dawn, he dragged an immobile object off the flatbed and carelessly dropped it in the sand. The parcel stirred slightly upon impact. The owner of the tent came out and and handed the driver money rolled up in a rubber band. The exchange completed, the driver returned to the truck and drove away._

_The owner walked over to the delivered parcel, squatting down next to it. His newly acquired purchase was slowly regaining consciousness. As the sky lightened, he got a better look at the parcel - his new slave. He shook his head in disapproval upon seeing this man’s small stature. He was gaunt and boney, with dark circles in the hollows of his eyes. Not a very strong looking man at all._

_Consciousness came slowly, too slowly. The owner was becoming impatient and resorted to slapping the slave’s face to rouse him. The only reply was several quiet moans. More strikes. Eventually, the pain sent signals for the slave’s body to wake._

_His eyes slowly opened, blue eyes looked up but did not comprehend the surroundings. The man towering over him was talking - he could see the lips moving, but he could make no sense of what was being said. Words finally began to fade in and out. The man began waving his arms and kicking him. Through dimmed senses, the pain began to peak. He slowly rolled into a fetal ball for protection, but that didn’t help._

_Finally, he felt himself being dragged to his feet. The desert swirled around him in slow motion. Weakened legs refused to support him. He began to fall, but before reaching the ground, harsh arms stood him up once more. Unable to stand on his own, he wildly grasped at this rough man’s clothing, hoping not to fall again._

_The man removed a riding crop from the waistband of his trousers and warded off the grasps by striking the slave. Still confused, the blond man backed away after the first initial blows, but the owner immediately grabbed him by the arm and continued hitting him. He tried pulling away, but the blows kept coming. He began crying out in pain, and the blows continued._

_"Keep bellowing and I promise I will not stop!" the man warned._

_Unable to control his emotions, the slave continued his shouting. The man was true to his word, and he kept up the beating. Finally, the slave succumbed and forced himself to stop resisting._

The pain killer began to wear off, and slowly but steadily the pain returned. Illya was sleeping on his back, which by now had become increasingly painful. He had the presence of mind to stifle his gasps and moans, fearing the beatings he had become accustomed to. Illya knew he had to roll on his left side before the sensations worsened. Once he was situated, he tried calming himself down.

He began sweating profusely until his entire body felt drenched. Occasionally, Illya peered over his shoulder, making sure that his new master was still asleep. His temperature had risen again, this time making him feel unbearably hot. Quietly, he attempted to unravel himself from the blankets. They tangled around his body and he was unable to remove them without increasing the pain. He tried a few times more then finally gave up. He buried his head into the sweat-soaked pillow to help stifle his almost inaudible moans.

A door opened and a small beam of light filtered into the room. Someone entered. Illya held his breath, hoping whoever was coming in would quickly leave thinking everything was fine. He hoped Napoleon would not be roused. Instead, the intruder quietly walked over to Illya’s bed, then immediately turned on a soft light in the room. Dr. Shapiro.

"Illya, did the pain return?" he asked, quickly feeling the temperature on Illya’s forehead.

He nodded shakily, holding a hand up to his mouth. "Shhh...please...don’t wake my master."

It was too late. Before finishing the sentence, Illya saw Napoleon coming towards him. He shielded his face with a protective right arm, breathing rapidly.

Napoleon tried calming down his friend while Yossi brought a syringe of the pain killer from the locked cabinet.

"It’s all right, Illya. No one is going to hurt you. Relax. Yossi is going to make the pain go away." By now, the doctor had returned with the hypodermic needle.

"This will start to work in a few seconds, my friend," Yossi said as he approached the IV line. Illya then realized he still had it in his arm, and in a painful rage, tried to remove it. Napoleon and the doctor managed to stop him before the line was disturbed. Although his arms were secured by the two men, Illya lunged his upper body, gaining momentum by digging his left shoulder into the mattress, and tried using his teeth to remove the IV. As he was once again thwarted, he began screaming.

"Illya, you have to stop. You have to leave the IV alone." Napoleon was direct and firm. Illya immediately stopped screaming, realizing what he was doing. As he suppressed, the shaking began again. "If you keep trying to remove it, we’ll have to restrain you...tie your hands down. Will you stop trying to take it out?"

The Russian’s chest was heaving, and he was afraid to speak, knowing that if he opened his mouth, he would start screaming again. He curtly nodded his head in agreement.

"Good."

Illya watched as Yossi injected the serum into the IV. A few short seconds later, the pain subsided, but the shaking and sweating didn’t. The doctor checked his temperature. 103.

Yossi added another bag of antibiotics to the IV line and increased the dextrose. He and Napoleon quickly washed Illya’s face and neck with a cool cloth, then replaced his sweat soaked hospital gown with a dry one. His bed was saturated as well. Neither men had the energy to replace the linens at this hour, so Napoleon recommended placing Illya in his own bed. He’d sleep in the chair. Illya resisted. It was unheard of for a master to offer the slave his bed. Napoleon informed him that it was very late, and there would be no discussion in the matter.

Once Illya was settled, Yossi rechecked his vital signs, told Napoleon that either he or Ari would be stopping in periodically...and if they needed any help at all, to call. Before leaving, he dimmed the lights so the room wouldn’t be in total darkness.

Napoleon sat down on the edge of Illya’s bed, gently patting his shoulder. The senior agent was surprised that this made Illya a bit uneasy, but dismissed it as part of the trauma he’d been through. He lifted the call button, showing it to his friend.

"This, Illya, is a button you can push if you need help. If you’re in pain, or hungry, or if you need something and no one is here, push this and one of the doctors will come in to help you."

Illya stared at him.

"It’s OK to use it." No response. Obviously Illya didn’t understand these new boundaries. "You have my permission." Illya nodded. "Get some sleep now."

* * * * *

Sleep seemed to be a taller order for Napoleon. Although the chair he settled into was extremely comfortable, sleep would not come. In contrast, Illya had drifted off almost immediately. Napoleon focused on his partner’s breathing, listening for any irregularities which would indicate a change in his condition.

Shortly after, the regular breathing pattern became erratic, interspersed with soft moans. Napoleon listened for a few moments, waiting to see whether or not they would subside. In the dimmed light, he noticed his friend was shivering.

Napoleon quietly walked over to Illya. His hands were like ice and his whole body trembled with the cold. The fever was simply running its course, and all he could do was make the patient as comfortable as possible. Napoleon placed his own blanket around Illya, hoping it would warm him. It helped for a while, but then the shivering and moans returned.

Without hesitation, Napoleon slid next to Illya, placing an arm around his friend, attempting to warm him with his own body heat. Illya instinctively drew close to the warmth.

The shivering soon subsided, but the moans had increased, and soon, Illya began mumbling words Napoleon couldn’t understand. It wasn’t Russian, and surely wasn’t English. Arabic? What he was mumbling didn’t register with the little Arabic Napoleon understood. The words increased in content and volume, and soon Illya was starting to thrash around.  


_"What is your name?" the man asked._

" _Illya," the slave responded between gasps of pain._

_"I am Nasir, and I own you now." The man pointed to the dingy gray tent. "This is my tent. My wife, Irana, is inside sleeping, so I want you to be quiet. I work outside, behind the tent. My brother-in-law Muhammed..." he pointed to a tent about a hundred yards north of his own, "...and I are in business together. He makes copper trays and pots, and they need to be polished. That’s your job." Nasir dragged Illya by the arm, taking him behind the tent to a small canvas-covered area. Muhammed’s wares were stacked, ready to be polished. He picked up a stained cloth, poured a smelly clear liquid on and showed Illya how to polish the copper. Illya’s eyes and nostrils burned at the caustic odor._

_Nasir handed the cloth to Illya._

_"Do you understand?"_

_Illya nodded._

_"Everything you need is here. I expect all these to be polished by the end of the morning." Nasir began to walk away._

_"Master," a shaky voice started, "...I’m hungry. I haven’t eaten since..."_

_Nasir turned on his heels. He took the riding crop in hand once more, and began hitting Illya again. Instinctively, he cried out, trying to defend himself from the blows. The master kept striking him until the cries ceased._

_"I don’t care how hungry you are, you swine! You will eat if and when I decide to feed you. Now get to work!"_

_As Nasir walked away, Illya stood immobile, afraid to move, afraid that unwanted sounds would escape from his lips. Slowly, composure came. Illya picked up the smelly rag and began polishing the copper._

"Wake up, Illya. It’s only a dream." Napoleon’s voice was quiet and calming.

Immediately, Illya opened his eyes, looking around wildly, confused, breathing heavily. His new master was propped on his right elbow, facing him. Agitated, Illya backed away as far as he could without falling off the bed. Solo moved a little closer, but retreated when Illya covered his face and turned away, once again expecting to be beaten.

_The days seemed endless, and they drifted into restless nights. Sleep should provide a respite from the days’ labors, but Illya’s nights became increasingly uneasy._

_At first, the nightmares were infrequent, but as his time with Nasir increased, so did the frequency of restless dreams. At their onset, Illya would cry out in his sleep, and Nasir showed his displeasure with being awakened by coming outside and beating his slave._

_After a few nights of this repeated abuse, Illya feared going to sleep. He became so skittish that he could almost train himself to awaken from the dream before he would make a sound._

Napoleon innocently placed his right arm around him, pulling him back towards the center of the bed. Illya struggled, so he immediately withdrew his arm.

"You were having a bad dream. That’s all."

Illya nervously nodded as he attempted to settle down. Napoleon kept talking to him in a soft voice, hoping Illya would realize that no one was going to hurt him. The blond was still tense, uncomfortable. The senior agent tried to comfort his friend.

There was little comfort to be felt. It seemed no matter what Napoleon did or said, Illya remained rigid, still shaking. Distrusting eyes would look up momentarily, then avert once more as he tried to slowly inch away.

Napoleon reached over and slid his arm around Illya, hoping a little human contact would help his partner relax, become less fearsome. As he was drawn nearer, Illya relented.

"What’s wrong? I'm not going to hurt you."

Illya closed his eyes tightly, as if trying to blot out an image. He could feel the anxiety rising within himself. The shaking intensified; Napoleon’s words were unable to soothe him.

Suddenly, a cold hand slid on Napoleon’s abdomen. At first, the senior agent assumed that Illya was simply repositioning himself. Then, the chilled hand found its way under his pajama top causing Napoleon’s belly to contract. He jumped slightly.

"Illya, what are you doing?"

Without a word, or eye contact, or any form of acknowledgment, Illya moved his hand under the pajama bottom’s waistband, down his master’s abdomen, aiming for his genitals. Napoleon moved his hips away, grasping Illya’s wrist.

"Illya, stop this."

Almost roboticly, Illya slid himself closer to Napoleon and bent his head down near his master’s hips. Napoleon now grabbed Illya’s shoulders, sitting him upright. His voice was slightly louder now.

"What the hell are you doing?"

Illya’s face was expressionless, his gaze far away. "Making you hard," he answered matter-of-factly.

"What?"

"You laid down beside me. I thought you wanted sex."

Napoleon released Illya’s shoulders, realizing the impact of his actions. Yossi found that Illya had been raped. Solo’s physical contact, although well intended, had been misconstrued as a demand for sex.

They sat face to face, yet Illya’s gaze would not meet his own. Illya seem unfazed by the awkwardness of the situation. Napoleon, on the other hand, was thrown completely off-guard. Illya sat quietly, still shivering but saying nothing, offering no other initiatives, waiting to see what his new master would do next.

"Illya, did Nasir rape you?"

"Rape?" Illya had heard that word before, but didn’t understand its meaning.

"Force you to have sex with him?"

Illya’s eyes narrowed a bit, as if mulling over the question. "Force me?"

Napoleon nodded. "Yes, force you."

"It’s my duty to do as my master asks," he replied, still looking down, biting his lip, beginning to show discomfort with the conversation.

Napoleon placed his hand on Illya’s shoulder. Illya’s gaze focused on the hand momentarily, then lowered once more.

"Can you tell me what happened?" Napoleon asked, withdrawing his hand.

Illya looked up, directly at Napoleon. He was given an option, not an order, and as he weighed the answered, he looked downward and shook his head.

As much as Napoleon hated playing the role of the master, he did have that power over Illya and decided to use it to his advantage. "I want you tell me," said softly.

The gentleness of the voice didn’t matter, the words did. Illya had no choice now, so he took a deep breath to stabilize himself before reluctantly obeying his new master’s order.

_The arguing got louder and louder, until Illya was able to understand what Nasir and his wife were fighting about. His nighttime ritual was to become increasingly inebriated, and tonight, he was demanding sex. Irana wanted no part of it and eventually kicked him out of the bed._

_"Sober up first, you pig! You think I enjoy having a drunken bum sleep with me? To top it off, you’re worse of a lover when you drink!"_

_"This is my home! You’re my wife! I’ll drink when I like"_

_"Good! Drink when you like, but don’t get into bed with me when you do! Go outside and sleep it off."_

_Nasir grabbed his riding crop and staggered outside, almost tripping over his slave. Illya lay curled up in a thin blanket on his mat, but not asleep at all. If Nasir knew he had heard their argument, he would have been so irate Illya would once again be beaten. Feigning sleep was easier._

_"Wake up, you idiot!" Nasir screamed, kicking Illya with a vengeance. The blond gasped and opened his eyes wide upon impact. A few more repeated kicks, Nasir pulled off the blanket, satisfied that Illya was awake._

_Nasir unlocked the wrist shackle which secured his slave at night, then ordered Illya to remove his clothes._

_Illya lay there, breathing heavily, trying to make sense of the situation._

_"Take off your clothes, I said!" More kicks._

_Obediently, Illya did as Nasir demanded. First he removed his shirt, thinking this was all that Nasir wanted. The request was not all that unusual. He’d been beaten on bare flesh before._

_"Pants too, you cretin! Don’t make me wait." Illya removed his pants as well. There he sat naked in the cool night air, knees drawn up to his chest, feeling more vulnerable than usual. He expected Nasir to reach for his riding crop. Instead, the master sat down to his left, forcing Illya to lie back on the mat. Nasir pulled the blanket over both of them._

_Illya tried moving away, but Nasir grabbed his crop and landed several sharp blows to the arms and chest. Each time the arm raised for the next strike, Illya tried to cover his face and turn away. Even drunk, Nasir’s blows were painful. He wanted to cry out, but knew that would only extend the beating. Illya suppressed his pain and eventually stopped struggling. Nasir ceased._

_Nasir removed his own shirt and pants. Once undressed, he grabbed Illya’s right hand and placed it on his abdomen. Not knowing what to do, Illya simply kept his hand where it was put. Nasir became impatient._

_"Start rubbing me," he hissed._

_Clumsily, Illya began rubbing the area Nasir had placed his hand._

_"Not like that, like...." and Nasir grasped Illya’s wrist, guiding the hand to his groin, "...this."_

_Illya tried pulling his hand away when he felt Nasir’s penis._

_"No, no, no. Do as I say," he said, holding tighter onto Illya’s wrist. "Keep touching me, stroking me."_

_Nausea began rising in Illya’s stomach. Although he didn’t know exactly what he was doing, the gut feeling made him uneasy._

_Nasir’s penis stiffened after several minutes of stroking._

_"Roll over," Nasir demanded._

_Obediently, Illya did as he was told, but in the few short seconds it took for him to reposition himself, Nasir’s penis became flaccid._

_Cursing, Nasir grabbed Illya’s hair, forcing him to place his mouth around the limp member. The nausea worsened, but Illya knew the consequences if he didn’t obey. Finally, Nasir felt ready to attempt penetration, and once more ordered Illya to roll over._

_The searing pain caused Illya to scream out. He tried moving away, but Nasir had too tight of a grip on him. The pain continued, and the cries turned into pleas to stop, which fell on deaf ears. Nasir grumbled and placed a hand over Illya’s mouth to stop the noise._

_After what seemed like an eternity, Nasir was done. Spent. He pulled himself out and lay panting next to Illya, who trembled uncontrollably. Once Nasir regained his composure, he relocked the shackle around Illya’s wrist, gathered his clothes, and went back inside the tent to go to sleep._

An awkward silence filled the room as Illya finished. He drew the blankets tighter around himself, still shivering with the effects of the fever and reliving the horror. His head was lowered, eyes focused on the floor. Napoleon didn’t immediately know what to do or say. Instinctively, he wanted to reach out to his friend to reassure him, but didn’t want his actions to be misconstrued.

"He had no right to rape you," Napoleon finally said, breaking the silence.

"It was my duty to obey him." Tears started welling again. This time, Illya was too numb to blink them back.

"Did he force you?"

Illya nodded.

"Then it was rape."

The awkward silence returned.

"Illya...before...when you woke up and I was next to you...I’m sorry you thought it was a demand for sex. That wasn’t my intention."

"Why else would you lie down with me?"

Napoleon chuckled. He had a reputation to uphold. "Not for sex, Illya. I prefer women...honestly. I just laid down next to you because you were shivering. The fever is giving you chills, and I wanted to help you warm up a little."

Illya looked up at him, directly into his eyes this time, trying to find truth in what was being said. 

Napoleon smiled and nodded reassuringly. "No offense, Illya, but you’re really not my type."

After a glass of juice and a little small talk, fatigue once again set in. Illya had relaxed enough to lie down again. Napoleon was concerned that his friend had shrugged off his emotions too easily. The average person would have been too distraught to sleep.

Illya curled up into a ball, and with Napoleon’s assistance, pulled the blankets over him. Despite the warmth of two blankets, the chills continued.

"Would you like a little extra body heat?" Napoleon finally asked, holding up his hands. "No sex, I promise."

Without looking up, Illya nodded. Maybe he did need a little comfort after all. Napoleon moved next to him, put one arm around his friend’s bony shoulders and drew him near. Then, a familiar cold hand lay on his stomach, causing him to jump.

"Illya!"

What Napoleon heard next was a quiet chuckle, then Illya buried his head in his new master’s shoulder. _It’s good to hear you laugh, Illya._ The shivering stopped a short while later and Illya once again fell asleep, drifting into his dreams.

_Regardless of how much Illya worked, there was no pleasing Nasir. He wasn’t fast enough. The copper wasn’t shiny enough. They weren’t stacked well. Fingerprints showed. He made too much noise. He used too much polish. Too many rags..._

_In the end, Illya lost. The beatings became routine. So did the hunger. Occasionally, he was given a little watery cereal for breakfast, and when Nasir and Irana felt generous, saved him a little meat from their dinner. He would scrounge whatever he could and make the best of it._

_Nighttime fell. Muhammed drove his truck to Nasir’s tent, unloading his latest copperware, reloading his truck with the polished ones. The noise roused Illya from his sleep._

_Seconds later, Nasir appeared, unlocking the wrist shackle and dragging Illya to his feet. Without a word, he pushed the slave to the work tent._

_"Will you look at this?" Nasir screamed. "This is dull already! You are so damn useless!" He raised his riding crop and struck Illya several times, not caring where the blows landed. The force pushed Illya back, knocking over several large copper urns._

_Illya couldn’t get to his feet quickly enough, so Nasir went after him again. Muhammed, a bear of a man, stepped in, mentioning that beating this unfortunate imbecile wouldn’t help get his copperware packed. Nasir shrugged off the comment, decided that if his brother-in-law could make better use of his slave, he was welcome to do so._

_"Just make sure he’s chained to the post when you’re done with him," were Nasir’s parting words. With that, he turned and walked away, ready to partake of his nightly potable._

_Muhammed turned to Illya._

" _Give me a hand loading up my truck, then we need to crate them," he said._

_Illya stood mute. His arms encircled his chest and shoulders, cradling himself. As Muhammed came closer, Illya withdrew, visibly afraid of this big man. Muhammed stopped, and simply motioned for Illya to follow. Then he picked up a large pile of copper trays, and loaded them in the back of his old truck. The more he piled in, the louder the creaks became. This had been Muhammed’s trusty vehicle for the past decade, but the wear and tear and unrelenting desert sun took its toll._

_Illya was too afraid to move. Sensing his fear, Muhammed finished loading all the copper on his own, except for one small bowl. He handed it to Illya, and then guided him to the truck. He motioned for the blond man to place the bowl in the back, then helped him up on to the truck as well. Nasir’s brother-in-law jumped in the truck’s cab, started the engine and drove home._

_The truck stopped. Illya heard the door slam shut and saw Muhammed come around to the back. The slave slid off the truck’s open back, and started lifting the copper._

_"No, don’t do that," Muhammed said softly. "You’ve done enough work today. Come inside with me."_

_Illya didn’t know what to do, afraid to say anything._

_"Come, come," the soft voice said again._

_Muhammed moved closer to Illya, took his arm and quickly brought him inside the tent._

_Once inside, Illya froze, his eyes darting as he looked around. Woven rugs created a floor, cushions were scattered about, and the smell of food permeated the air. Bright cloths hung from the top of the tent, dividing the simple domicile into two rooms._

_Muhammed called for his wife Mara, who appeared from behind the bright cloths._

_"Aah, there you are!" he said, kissing her lightly on the cheek._

_"And who is this?" she asked_

_"This is Illya, Nasir’s latest acquisition. He’s our dinner guest tonight."_

_Mara nodded. "Well, come in and sit down, Illya."_

_Uncertain about what to do, Illya started to slowly back out the tent’s opening, into the desert night. Muhammed walked over to him, ushering him back inside. Reluctantly, Illya entered, but declined the offer to sit down. Despite their coaxing, the slave remained standing, afraid of what Nasir would do if he found out._

_Mara walked over to Illya and handed him a cup of water._

_"At least have something to drink," she said. Mara was a short, plump woman in her late 40’s whose smile and demeanor were engaging. Unlike her sister, Irana, she tried to make Illya feel at ease._

_Illya graciously took the water and gulped it down quickly. Before he knew it, she refilled the cup, and then again several more times after that. Once sated, he bowed his head, nodding to her in ’thanks’._

_Muhammed’s wife began laying out three bowls of thick soup and bread for dinner on the woven rugs. Then she brought out a large kettle of mint tea. Finally, she placed three large cushions around the food, and beckoned for Illya to sit down._

_Anxiety began to build within him. On one hand, Illya could not remember the last time he had eaten a proper meal. The scent of the food was as enticing as Mara’s and Muhammed’s friendliness. He wanted to eat more than anything. His eyes focused on the steaming, thick soup. On the other hand, he was fearful of the impropriety of eating with them. The all consuming fear of Nasir overwhelmed him._

_Muhammed and Mara began dining, leaving the portion of soup and cushion in place for their guest. Illya looked around suspiciously, as if expecting Nasir to appear. Hunger took precedent, and Illya finally came closer to the food._

_Mara patted the cushion, motioning for him to join her and her husband. Still apprehensive, he curtly shook his head ’no’._

" _Illya, it will be our little secret, all right?" Muhammed assured._

_Illya closed his eyes and nodded. He awkwardly sat down, wincing slightly when his full weight sank into the cushion._

_Mara placed the bread and bowl of soup in Illya’s shaking hands. Without looking up, Illya brought the bowl to his lips and began eating. As he ate, Illya closed his eyes, savoring the rich, flavorful food. Food. It had been such a long time since he had eaten anything substantial. The bowl was emptied quickly. He never even noticed Mara offering him a spoon._

_"Would you like some more?" Muhammed asked._

_Illya opened his eyes, and slightly blushed when he realized that he had eaten so quickly._

_"No...no, thank you," he lied._

_Mara poured three glasses of warm mint tea._ _"Well, have some tea then," she said, handing Illya a glass._

_Mint tea. He looked at the glass as he held it, then sniffed its contents. Finally, he looked up at his hosts, as if asking permission to drink it. They nodded, he took a sip. His eyebrows raised, as though he was contemplating whether or not he liked the taste. He finally raised the glass to his lips again and downed it completely._

_"Please have some more, Illya," she offered. He accepted._

_Muhammed drank his glass of tea, and immediately shot a glance towards Mara, who smiled meekly. She had not only sweetened it with extra sugar, she had added a generous quantity of whiskey as well._

_The hosts finally coaxed Illya into eating more soup and bread, and drinking more mint tea. By the time they finished the meal, the whiskey had taken effect. The pain was dulled and Illya relaxed a little._

_After talking for a short while, Muhammed stood up, ready to return the slave to his master’s tent. Mara walked over to Illya, extended her arms open to offer an embrace. A slight smile formed on his lips as he accepted her hug. He closed his eyes, soaking up the warmth as she wrapped her arms around him. Afterwards, Muhammed walked Illya back to the post and shackle, reluctantly locking it around his wrist._

_Illya tugged Muhammed’s shirt and quietly thanked him before his host walked away. Then, the slave drew the thin blanket around him to stave off the cool night air, curled up on his mat and fell asleep. Tonight, sleep would be a respite from his cruel world._

* * * * *

Illya slept well, deep and restful. He never felt Napoleon get up or heard the sounds of Ari and Yossi entering. Nor did he feel the medical instruments used to assess his condition. He was finally roused when Yossi sat down next to him, waking him.

As if stunned, Illya lay still, nervous eyes wide open looking about.

"Do you know who I am?" the doctor asked.

It took Illya a few moments to acclimate himself with his surroundings. The hospital room with its indigenous sounds, a bed, Yossi and Ari...he finally remembered and nodded. He looked around for his master, but he was nowhere to be seen.

"Breakfast will be here shortly, Illya," Ari said. "Are you hungry?"

Illya again nodded.

"You’re doing just fine. Your temperature is much lower, and if you continue recuperating at this pace, you should be in top condition very soon. We’ll be back in a few minutes. Just rest and take it easy."

The pain of his injuries were numbed, but the sensation of hunger persisted. Illya rolled on to his side and brought his knees to his chest, minimizing the pangs. He was unaware that Yossi and Ari were still watching him, and allowed himself the simple pleasure of moaning slightly as he wrapped his arms around his knees, pulling them closer to his chest.

Napoleon entered, still drying his hair after a well-needed shower and a change of clothes. As soon as Illya heard him, he immediately silenced himself and straightened his legs, hoping his new master didn’t notice.

"Oh good, you’re awake," Napoleon said softly, coming closer.

Illya involuntarily backed away. Napoleon extended his hand, hoping to merely make a physical connection with Illya, but withdrew it when his friend shut his eyes tightly and turned his head. He expected to be either grabbed or hit, like before. Neither happened. Illya opened his eyes, but kept his gaze lowered in respect.

"Breakfast will be here in just a few moments," Yossi offered, trying to break the break the awkward silence.

"Great," Napoleon chimed in. "I’m starving!"

Illya glanced up at his master, who surely didn’t look like he was starving.

"It’s just an expression, Illya," Napoleon said, realizing why his friend was looking at him quizzically. "It just means that I’m very hungry."

Illya once again lowered his gaze and nodded in comprehension.

The door opened and a cart of food was rolled into the room. Illya couldn’t help notice the stack of plates piled high, all capped with shiny metal covers. The aroma of warm food filled the air, the scents as enticing as those in Mara and Muhammed’s tent.

Illya began getting off the bed. Ari stopped him.

"Where are you going?" the young intern asked.

"I’ll serve you your breakfast, sir," Illya responded, trying to stand up.

"No, no...we’ll do that, Illya," Yossi informed him. "Get back in bed. We’ll take care of breakfast."

He got back into bed and watched as the two doctors and Napoleon busied themselves clearing off night stands and setting up four trays with silverware, juice, beverages and the plates of food. Ari then rolled the long wheeled hospital-bed tray over and arranged Illya’s breakfast on it. Yossi helped Illya sit up, cranked the head of the bed into an upright position and motioned for him to lean back. The wheeled tray was placed in front of him. Napoleon placed his own breakfast on the end of Illya’s long tray, while Ari and Yossi opted for the night stands to hold their meals.

In a rather dramatic presentation, Napoleon raised the chrome cover off Illya’s plate with a musical "Ta-Dah!" A mound of fluffy scrambled eggs embedded with melted cheese, accompanied by buttered bread with jam, and melon slices filled the plate. 

Illya couldn’t take his eyes off the plate, and found himself breathing nervously at its site. He was apprehensive about eating the aromatic food. He was in his master’s presence, and it was improper to eat with him. He waited while the doctors and Napoleon began to devour their meals, chatting amicably while eating.

Napoleon turned to him, surprised that the food remained untouched.

"Aren’t you hungry, Illya?" he asked.

Illya nodded slowly, avoiding eye contact with his master.

"Well then, dig in."

Once again, Illya looked up at Napoleon, not understanding the directions.

"That’s another expression...it means you should start eating," he explained.

Illya looked around at Yossi and Ari, enjoying their meal, and at Napoleon who was waiting for him to begin eating. He felt extremely uncomfortable, and shook his head, declining the invitation.

"Is there something wrong with your food?" Napoleon asked.

The blond head shook ’no’.

"Then what’s the problem?"

Illya remained mute, afraid to speak. He began to shake slightly as his anxiety increased. "I can’t," he finally replied.

"Why?"

Silence.

"Illya, use your words. Tell me why you can’t eat."

Silence again. Illya gazed at Yossi and Ari, who were involved in their own conversation and appeared to be oblivious to his dilemma. Napoleon was still waiting for an answer.

"I’m not...permitted," he whispered.

Napoleon raised his eyebrows, surprised at the response.

"Why not?"

The questions were making Illya increasingly uncomfortable. He remained silent, with eyes still cast downward.

The senior agent touched Illya’s arm, trying to draw his attention. This only added to Illya’s discomfort.

"I’m curious, Illya. Why won’t you eat? You need to express yourself. I’m not a mind reader. Why?"

"Because you are still eating. I must wait until you are finished," Illya whispered.

"And why is that?"

"Because Nasir..." Illya began to explain, then choked on his remaining words, "...said I must." He stopped talking, trying to regain composure. The shaking started, and with an unsteady voice, he added: "Otherwise, he would beat me."

Napoleon tried to gulp down the lump in his throat, and with a calm voice, replied: "I’m not Nasir. You can eat with me, and I certainly will never beat you. Do you understand what I am saying?"

Illya shrugged slightly, not fully comprehending what his master said.

"Hey, Illya!" Yossi called. "Aren’t your eggs done the way you like them?"

The blond slave nodded a little.

"Then eat already. They’re getting cold," the doctor said.

Once again, uncertain what to do, Illya looked to Napoleon, who nodded and motioned towards his friend’s meal. A slight smile spread on Illya’s lips, and he began eating, literally digging in with his hands. He scooped up fingersful of eggs and pushed them into his mouth, trying not to drop any in the process.

After watching this for a moment, Napoleon loudly cleared his throat. The sound caught Illya’s attention, and he stopped eating mid-mouthful, bits of scrambled egg falling from his fingertips. Napoleon smiled and offered him a napkin to wipe his hands. Illya took it, but didn’t know what to do with it. Napoleon demonstrated, and Illya followed suit.

Napoleon held up his fork, and when he knew Illya was observing his actions, speared a small amount of food in its tines and placed it in his mouth. Illya looked on his tray and saw the fork resting next to the plate. Hesitantly, he picked it up and looked at it from all angles. Napoleon kept eating with his own food, eyes focused on his friend. Illya understood his master’s suggestion and once again followed suit, only eating at a faster pace to fill the void in his belly as quickly as possible.

The melon slices were large, but Illya managed to pick up an entire piece on his fork. Napoleon once again caught his attention, and showed him how to cut it into smaller pieces. Illya nodded, and did the same. Eventually, he devoured every drop of food on his tray.

Illya enjoyed the meal, still uneasy with the care and attention he was being given. When all four were finished, Illya was told to stay put and the food would be cleared away without his help. He observed leftover food on several of the plates. It bothered him that it was being thrown away. He would have hoarded it for later, but the trays were removed before he could take the scraps.

"Have you had enough to eat?" Napoleon asked after Ari and Yossi left.

Illya was leaning back on the bed, eyes closed, enjoying the sensation of feeling sated. His body still needed rest, and the urge to sleep persisted.

"Yes, Master. Thank you," he replied. He appeared almost relaxed.

"Good. Get some sleep now. I have paperwork to do, but I’ll be back in a little while. If you need anything...anything...use the call button, all right?"

"Yes, Master."

"Illya, I have a name. It’s Napoleon. You don’t need to call me ’Master’."

"Yes, Mas...Napoleon."

* * * * *

"Well, what do you think?" Napoleon asked Yossi.

The doctor and his nephew were discussing Illya’s condition when Napoleon walked into the infirmary. They were reviewing the previous night’s film from the security camera, trying to understand what happened to the Russian agent.

"This is a tough one, Napoleon," Dr. Shapiro began. "He has been so conditioned with a slave’s mentality, I’m not sure we could ever get him back to his original ’self’. Come here, look at this." Yossi motioned for the senior agent to view the film. He rewound several minutes of footage until he found the exact spot he wanted.

"He’s positively terrified of you," Yossi continued. "Do you notice how he backs away from you, and here....here..." The doctor showed several sections of the film where Illya would turn away and cover his face when Napoleon approached. "...you are not threatening at all. Your demeanor is calm, you’re not rushing at him, yet he thinks you’re going to hit him. He does this every time you come near."

Napoleon swallowed the lump which had once again risen into his throat. It was painful to see his closest friend shrink away in fear.

"I haven’t found a way to put him at ease yet. If I touch him, his body language lets me know he’s uncomfortable or he pulls away. He’ll only talk to me if I virtually demand it, otherwise he won’t say a word."

"Just this morning when he was hungry, so he curled up and groaned. He didn’t know we were watching. The moment you came into the room, he straightened his legs and shut up. He didn’t want you to know. I would almost guarantee that if you never offered him another bite of food, he wouldn’t ask you for any."

"I guess you watched him tell me about being raped by Nasir," Napoleon sighed. "He probably hates the fact that I made him talk. It must have been very painful for him."

"Aah, but he regrouped rather quickly, didn’t he? He obviously learned early on to suppress whatever he must to survive. I did notice he let you hold him a bit while he fell asleep...and he slept rather soundly after that. No nightmares. Get him to talk. That might help, and give us some insight into what happened to him."

Napoleon chuckled. "It’s like pulling teeth."

"Then pull some teeth. Oh, and work on his social skills while you’re at it."


	3. Chapter 3

Napoleon delayed bringing lunch a little longer than he really wanted. He stayed by the security camera’s monitor to watch Illya while he slept. The blond agent was once again restless, possibly having more hellish dreams. Hunger pains once again rumbled through his belly, and the blond agent curled up into a fetal position. Napoleon turned up the volume and heard Illya’s soft moans.

By the time Napoleon entered the hospital room Illya was awake. He straightened out and silenced himself when he was aware that his master was in the room. And once again, stiffened and backed away slightly as the new master neared.

"How are you feeling, Illya?"

Illya simply nodded a little, with a lowered gaze.

"Is there anything you need?" Solo asked.

Silence.

_Say it, for chrissake!_ Napoleon thought.

"No, Master," he replied softly.

"You must be hungry by now. Would you like some lunch?"

Silently, Illya nodded his head, avoiding all eye contact.

"Illya, look at me." The slave obeyed. "When you get hungry, please tell me. I’m not a mind reader."

" _Master," a shaky voice started, "...I’m hungry. I haven’t eaten since..."_

_Nasir turned on his heels. He took the riding crop in hand once more, and began hitting Illya again. Instinctively, he cried out, trying to defend himself from the blows. The master kept striking him until the cries ceased._

_"I don’t care how hungry you are, you swine! You will eat if and when I decide to feed you. Now get to work!"_

"...me what is happening, Illya!" Napoleon’s voice had re-entered his consciousness, fully aware that his friend was reliving something negative from the past several weeks. "What’s bothering you?"

Illya was too upset to answer. All he could do was shake his head ’no’.

Napoleon didn’t press the issue.

To request lunch, Napoleon pressed the "call button," and when the doctor’s voice came through the speaker, the senior agent looked up at the surveillance camera. A small red light was on, indicating that the camera was on, observing them.

"Anything good on the menu today?" he asked.

"That all depends..." Yossi’s voice boomed. "...on what you consider good."

Napoleon chuckled. "Well, we’ll take the ’blue plate special’ then. Thanks."

The red light went out. Illya looked at it curiously.

"That, Illya, is a security camera. UNCLE has them all over the place."

"Security camera?" Illya seemed to mull over the concept.

"Yes. It’s for surveillance. The doctors have linked this camera to their office, so if they need to check in on us, all they have to do is switch it on, and voilá, they can see us without ever leaving their infirmary."

"Why?"

"It’s for security. Their safety and ours. It works both ways. If we want to turn it on, we can use this thing..." Napoleon picked up a black palm-sized remote unit. "...the remote control, to turn it on or off from here. Go ahead, try it. Press the green button and look at the camera."

Illya did just that, and after depressing the green "power" button, the red light once again appeared.

"Now smile, wave...you’re on "Candid Camera!"

"Is everything all right?" a voice asked from the speakers.

"Yes, we’re fine. Just playing around with the equipment."

"OK"

"Now to turn it off, press the green button again, and the camera shuts off," Napoleon instructed Illya.

The green button was pressed, and the red light extinguished.

Lunch arrived within minutes of Napoleon’s request. Yossi wanted to keep the diet easily digestible, so their repast consisted of hearty soup, fresh fruit, cheese, lemon sorbet, and protein-packed chocolate milk shakes. This time, Illya felt a little more comfortable eating with his new master. It was just the two of them, sharing the long tray table like before. His initial instinct was to eat with his fingers, but he stopped himself and used the utensils.

The blond agent took great interest in the sorbet. Not sure what to do with it, he began by poking a finger into the pale yellow mound, then quickly withdrew it when he felt its icy consistency. He placed the sorbeted finger in his mouth, and his eyebrows raised as he tasted the sweet/tart dessert.

"That, Illya, is sorbet - a mixture of fruit and sugar, all blended together and frozen to create a delectable concoction. I would recommend eating it with a spoon."

They began eating. Napoleon wanted to engage his friend in conversation, but Illya was too caught up in his lunch to talk.

"You look like you’re feeling a little better, Illya," Napoleon began, trying to drum up a little dialogue while they dined.

Illya looked up and nodded, unaccustomed to conversation while eating.

"Why not slow down the pace a little," Napoleon recommended. Illya was literally inhaling his lunch, trying to fill his empty belly as quickly as possible once more. "We have plenty of food here, and it’s not going to disappear of you eat it a bit slower."

Illya again nodded, and stopped wolfing down his food.

"Tastes better, doesn’t it?"

Another nod.

Illya finished every morsel of food on his plate, and when he assumed Napoleon was finished, his gazed fixated on his master’s leftovers. Napoleon graciously offered the remaining food to his friend, who immediately polished it off.

"Are you still hungry? Would you like something else to eat?" Napoleon asked.

"No...no, thank you, Master," he replied quietly, suddenly embarrassed by his voracious appetite.

"Well, I don’t know about you, but I’d like more sorbet. Want to try some different flavors?"

Napoleon could see Illya was confused.

"Flavor, my friend, is the way something tastes. Different foods have different flavors. The fruit we had with lunch all had different flavors. Could you tell the difference?"

Illya hesitated, not knowing what to say. "They were sweet," he finally answered. Then he smiled a little. "They were very good."

Several flavors of sorbet, colorfully scooped onto a platter, arrived about 10 minutes after Napoleon called the commissary. The dirty dishes were taken away, and clean bowls and spoons were placed in front of the two men.

Napoleon surveyed the selection.

"Hmmm, more lemon...that’s what we had with lunch. We have something red. That could either be cherry or strawberry, maybe even watermelon. And this one..." he pointed to to pale orange mound, "...could possibly be peach or mango. The green is definitely lime, and the white?...hmmm, maybe coconut or pineapple...aah, maybe vanilla. Don’t be shy, Illya. Dig in."

Not wanting to be the first to try the flavors, Illya waited a few moments, watching his master select and try a flavor. He observed Napoleon scooping one of the flavors in his bowl and eating it slowly, taking the time to truly taste it.

"Yup, the white is pineapple. Go ahead, Illya. Try it!"

Illya followed his lead, tasting the different sorbets. It took a little coaxing, but Napoleon managed to have him form an opinion about the flavors, the ones he liked, those he preferred less. Mango took top billing.

This was the most relaxed Illya had felt. For the duration of their shared meal, this man across from him seemed more like a friend than a master...almost like Muhammed, comfortable. He sat back against the bed’s headboard, closing his eyes in contentment.

While his friend rested, Napoleon picked up his day-old newspaper and began reading.

"Would you like a section?" he asked Illya.

The blue eyes opened. "A section?"

"Of the newspaper."

"Uh...no...thank you," he answered quietly, pausing momentarily. "I can’t read."

Napoleon never even considered that aspect of Illya’s brainwashing.

"Well, would you like to learn?"

Illya’s eyebrows raised slightly, contemplating the question, then nodded.

Napoleon chuckled slightly. "In what language?"

"Language?"

"Yes - language. The words you speak. Did you talk to Nasir in the same language you speak to me? Come to think of it, how did you learn to speak English?"

Illya shrugged.

_"Vous parlez Français?"_

Illya thought a moment. _"Un peu...je pense."_ He smiled a little, and then decided he’d like to learn to read and write in English.

Illya’s strength and stamina increased daily. Within five days of his arrival to UNCLE’s medical unit, the doctors had him walking with crutches and receiving physical therapy. His temperature soon returned to normal as the infection cleared out of his system. The bullet wound continued to heal, and the pain medication was drastically reduced. Illya watched in fascination as the IV lead was removed from his arm. Yossi explained the procedure as if teaching a med student. He also explained that all other medications would now be taken orally, since they could no longer be injected right into the line.

Despite his overall recuperation, the nightmares persisted. While Illya slept, uneasiness would invade, preventing a restful reprieve from his past few weeks’ abuse. They ranged from muttering or sobbing in his sleep to full scale night terrors, where he would wake with a jolt, a scream, or gasping for breath and sweating profusely.

Napoleon was often with him when they occurred. Illya’s initial fear was waking his master and being punished for disrupting his sleep. There was little solace for him. When Napoleon came near, he cringed, fully expecting retaliation. The episodes continued as the nights passed, and fear lessened into embarrassment. Illya couldn’t stop them. Although his lifestyle had improved drastically, he was unable to shake the demons that tormented him while he slept.

Both Napoleon and Yossi independently suggested he talk about the dreams, hoping that their underlying fears would diminish, but Illya was reluctant to discuss them. He merely said that he couldn’t remember what the dreams were about.

Illya’s overwhelming fatigue soon dissipated, and he became more alert. To help fast-track his recovery, Dr. Shapiro insisted that Illya abandon his hospital gowns and dress each morning. A few days later, the doctor discharged Illya from the infirmary, and made arrangements for Napoleon and Illya to settled into one of UNCLE’s on-site guest apartments.

UNCLE granted Illya a badge which allowed him limited access to the facility. He was free to roam his living quarters, infirmary and hospital area, commissary, several lounges, workout rooms and gym. He accidentally followed Napoleon into a restricted area and alarms blared, causing him to recoil in fear when armed guards pointed their weapons at him. Napoleon quietly shoo-ed them away, and escorted Illya out of the room, explaining that there were areas of the headquarters he could not go for security reasons.

Napoleon wanted Illya to finally meet "Uncle Waverly," so he made arrangements for Illya to have access to the communications room. The two men sat down in front of a monitor, and after the senior agent pressed a few buttons, the screen lit up and Mr. Waverly appeared on the screen. Illya sat watching the entire procedure wide-eyed.

"Aah, good morning, Gentlemen," Mr. Waverly greeted from across the world. "It is morning in the desert, isn’t it? Illya, you look well. How are you feeling?"

Illya looked at Napoleon, uncertain what to do.

"Just talk normally, Illya. Your voice will be picked up by the microphone, and ’Uncle Waverly’ will hear everything you say," Napoleon instructed, looking into the monitor himself, smiling at "Uncle Waverly."

"I...I’m feeling much better, Sir," Illya spoke.

"Good to hear. Are you being treated well?"

"Yes, Sir. Very well."

"Illya, where are you from?"

"The desert, Sir."

"Have you ever lived anywhere else?"

"No, Sir."

"Tell me about yourself."

"Well..." Illya paused for a moment, thinking what to say next. "There isn’t much to tell. Nasir was my master before Napoleon bought me...before that, I really can’t remember."

"Oh. Why did Nasir sell you?"

"I...he..." Illya paled slightly, biting his lower lip to diminish off the discomfort he was feeling. "...he no longer needed me, I guess."

"Well, it was Napoleon’s good fortune finding you. What are your plans for the future."

"The future?" Illya looked over to Napoleon, shrugging, not quite understanding the concept.

"What do you plan to do once you’ve totally regained your health?"

"I don’t have plans, Sir. Maybe my master has them."

Napoleon cringed.

"Well, think about it, young man. For now, though, focus on getting better."

"All right. Uncle Waverly?"

Mr. Waverly chuckled slightly from his side of the screen.

"Yes, Illya?"

"Thank you for taking care of me. I have no money..."

"Don’t worry about it. I’m glad to see you’re doing so well. I’ll talk to you gentlemen later." The screen went blank.

"Well, what do you think of Uncle Waverly?" Napoleon asked.

"He seems friendly."

Napoleon suppressed a laugh, knowing that Mr. Waverly’s true nature could not be summed up in that particular word.

"Where does he live?" Illya asked.

"In New York City. Do you know where that is?"

"In America, I think."

"Yup. That’s where I live, also."

Illya’s eyes opened wide.

"I’ll be going back in a few weeks. Would you like to go with me?"

Illya looked dumbfounded, unsure how to answer.

"I’ve never been out of the desert. What’s New York like?"

"Totally different. It’s almost winter there now. Cold, sometimes damp and dreary. The climate and landscape is a complete opposite of the desert. Lots of people, tall buildings, cars all over the place."

"Oh..." Illya raised an eyebrow, mulling over the proposition.

"You’re also welcome to stay here if you prefer. Take you time, think about it. I won’t be going back for a while yet."

Illya simply nodded.

Yossi decided it was time the young agent started honing his cognitive skills again. The difference between Illya’s mental capabilities before and after his abduction was so drastic that the doctor wondered if critical thinking would ever again be acquired. He was amazed, though, that Illya had retained knowledge of several spoken languages. Occasionally, he would start a conversation in either French, German, Hebrew, Arabic or Dutch, and Illya would respond accordingly.

Arrangements were made for reading and writing instruction. Agent Estelle Singer was selected. Before entering UNCLE, she was employed as an elementary school teacher in Canton, Ohio. Through downsizing, she lost the position and decided to make a career change. Several months later, she joined UNCLE, working as a statistician in the personnel department. Mr. Waverly asked Ms. Singer if she would be amenable to tutoring Illya. She agreed. Tutoring began the following day.

Both Yossi and Napoleon were still concerned over Illya’s lack of trust, especially towards his "new master." Occasionally, Illya would open up a little and talk with uncertain freedom, but he generally remained silent, afraid to initiate conversation or involve himself in discussions. It appeared that Illya felt more comfortable talking with Yossi, Ari, other members of UNCLE...anyone but Napoleon.

That afternoon, Yossi, Ari, Napoleon and Illya lunched in one of the UNCLE lounges. Illya no longer felt a need to nap after eating, so Napoleon decided this was a good time to start a new strategy to help his friend open up.

"I have absolutely no work to do this afternoon, so would you like to play a game?" Napoleon offered.

Illya shrugged slightly, not understanding the question.

"A game is something you play with other people."

"Play?" Illya asked quietly.

Napoleon smiled, still realizing just how "ignorant" Illya had become.

"I brought a game of Checkers with me this morning...let me teach you how to play it."

Napoleon walked over to a cabinet, retrieving a checkerboard with its black and red checkers, and set it up. He gave Illya the rudimentary objectives and directions of the game, then sat across from him and began to play.

For the first game, he talked Illya through each move, explaining why they would be beneficial if played that way.

For the second game, he left his friend to his own devices. Despite a few minor errors, Illya played relatively well. The senior agent went easy on him.

The third game was better. Napoleon didn’t find it necessary to withhold his own maneuvers as much. Illya won this round.

As the afternoon progressed, Illya developed winning strategies of his own. He was beginning to exercise his mental powers, planning moves and predicting what their consequences would be. Napoleon inwardly smiled as he had to try harder to beat his blond opponent.

"You’re really good at this. Have you played before?" Napoleon asked.

Illya shook his head ’no’ then smiled a little. "I have a good teacher."

Napoleon looked down at this watch, unaware that they had spent so much time playing. "And you have a 4 o’clock physical therapy appointment. Let’s clean this up and get going."

The two agents entered the Physical Therapy lab. The therapist took Illya’s crutches and began his treatment immediately. Napoleon excused himself. He had his own workout session in the planned with Olaf, an UNCLE trainer with whom he sparred occasionally. The senior agent felt out of condition having spent much of the last few days rather sedentary. He knew Olaf would whip him back in shape. Olaf, hired by UNCLE as one of the survival school trainers, was large. At six feet, five inches tall, the Swede towered over Napoleon and outweighed him by about fifty pounds of solid muscle.

Olaf’s workout was scheduled to coincide with Illya’s PT, lasting about an hour. Towards the end of the session, Illya came to the gymnasium. He watched as a sweat-soaked Napoleon freed himself after being pinned to the floor, overtaking Olaf, who in turn maneuvered the senior agent to his feet, slamming him into a wall. By the time Napoleon looked up, Illya had rushed over to them, raising one crutch above his head to strike Olaf.

"Illya, NO!" he yelled, pushing both Olaf and himself out of the crutch’s path. The crutch slammed against the wall, causing Illya to stumble. He quickly regained his stance and tried to attack Olaf again. The large Swede looked at Napoleon and shrugged slightly, not knowing how aggressively to respond.

Napoleon stood between them, hands up, attempting to settle his friend.

"It’s all right, Illya. He’s my trainer and we were just sparring."

"He was hurting you."

"No, no, he wasn’t. He was teaching me how to protect myself. That’s his job."

Illya lowered the crutch, still suspicious of Olaf but satisfied with Napoleon’s response.

Olaf walked over to Illya, introducing himself and extending his hand in friendship. Illya looked at Napoleon, who mimed the motion of a handshake. He accepted Olaf’s gesture and apologized for trying to attack him. Olaf smiled and nodded, understanding the blond’s intentions. The Swede then shook Napoleon’s hand, gave him a hefty pat on the back, and left the gym.

"I don’t know about you, Illya, but I desperately need a shower. I’m smell putrid," Napoleon said, picking up his gym bag.

Illya sniffed towards Napoleon a few times and shook his head.

"You don’t smell all that bad, Master."

"I guess it’s relative, isn’t it? Anyway, I’m going to clean up a bit." Napoleon looked at his friend. "It wouldn’t hurt if you washed up either. You’re a bit smelly yourself."

Illya sniffed himself this time and shrugged. This definitely was not the worst odor he had ever emitted. But he accepted Napoleon’s suggestion and the two of them walked towards the exit.

Napoleon placed his arm around his friend’s shoulders. Illya stopped abruptly and tensed his muscles, seemingly afraid of Napoleon once more. This time, the senior agent did not release his hold.

"You tried to protect me, didn’t you?" Napoleon asked.

"I thought he was hurting you," Illya responded, still rigid. He stiffened more as Napoleon placed a reassuring hand on his arm. "I’m sorry I attacked him," he added, becoming increasingly nervous.

"I’m not angry, Illya. I’m actually touched that you cared enough to help me out. That’s something a friend would do."

Illya mutely nodded and continued with Napoleon.

* * * * *

  
The locker room was new territory for Illya. He scanned the rows of lockers and benches as they walked by. Except for three other UNCLE agents using the facility, the room was vacant. Napoleon brought him to a section with several available lockers and proceeded to open one for himself. Not sure what to do, Illya followed suit. His uncertainty caught Napoleon’s attention.  
  
"These are lockers, Illya. People place stuff in them and then lock them up," Napoleon explained, dramatically removing a lock from his gym bag and placing in on the bench.

From the first night as Nasir’s property, The Master made it clear that he did not want his slave escaping at night. To prevent any unwelcome departures, Nasir nightly shackled Illya’s wrist to an iron pole buried deep within the sand. The haunting sound if the lock clasping secure became part of his dreaded nightly ritual. Often beaten, always hungry, tethered to a pole, secured by a lock.

Illya’s breathing quickened as his heart began racing in fear. He nervously swallowed as he looked around inconspicuously, trying to anticipate where Napoleon would use the lock.  
  
Oblivious to Illya’s uneasiness, Napoleon placed his gym bag on the bench, removing his clean clothes and placing them in his locker. A toiletries bag came out next, but stayed on the bench. Finally, clean towels were removed and placed on the bench as well. It took a moment for him to realize that Illya was standing immobile.  
  
"You need clean clothes, don’t you? Christ, I never even thought of that. Wait a moment, OK?"  
  
Solo walked to a wall phone, dialed several numbers and softly spoke into the receiver. When done, he returned to the locker.  
  
"No problem! Clean clothes and towels will be here momentarily," Napoleon announced cheerfully while starting to undress.  
  
Piece by piece, Napoleon’s sweaty clothes were peeled off his body and placed in the empty gym bag. Sweatshirt first, then his undershirt.

_Mid morning was still comfortble. The temperature was rising, but it was early enough to avoid the desert sun’s most intense heat. Illya had been polishing copper for several hours and was so numbed by his labors he didn’t hear Nasir enter the work tent. By the time Illya looked up, The Master’s shirt was off and he was rushing to the table where Illya stood. With a few quick strokes, he moved aside the copper platters and bowls, leaving a clear space on the table. Intuitively, Illya knew why Nasir was there. Nasir harshly ordered him to remove his clothes. Once the command was completed, he turned Illya toward the table, grabbed a fistful of blond hair and pushed, forcing his slave’s upper body to lay across the table’s clearing. That same hand kept hold of Illya’s hair, preventing him from moving. Illya could feel Nasir’s feet separating his own, spreading his legs wide apart for easier access. With his remaining free hand, Nasir lowered his own trousers before separating his slave’s cheeks. Illya braced himself for what was next, closing his eyes tightly and wincing, swallowing the outcries of pain he knew would follow._

Illya silently watched as Napoleon continued to undress, threatened by his size. He had never seen his new Master without a shirt before. Muscular, strong.  
  
Napoleon kicked off his sneakers and removed his socks, placing them in the gym bag as well. Next, he removed his sweatpants and underwear, quickly wrapping a towel around his waist.  
  
The blond wanted to escape. He slowly moved backwards, only to be blocked by more lockers whose doors rattled and clamored as he made contact. Napoleon looked up and then realized that Illya was once again reliving something horrible from his recent past.  
  
Without thinking, Napoleon quickly moved towards his friend, causing an already distressed Illya to turn away, folding his arms defensively around his body for protection. Solo stopped, realizing the implications of his appearance, understanding that Illya was in fear of being raped again.  
  
"Illya, look at me. Who am I?" Solo asked, sitting down on the bench.  
  
No answer.  
  
"Illya, turn around. Who do you think I am?"  
  
Illya finally turned his head, answering: "Nasir. I keep seeing Nasir." His voice was soft, unsteady.  
  
"But you know who I really am, don’t you?"  
  
"Yes." Illya turned his entire body around and relaxed his arms a little, sitting down on the bench a safe distance from Napoleon. He sighed, then placed his elbows on his knees, burying his head in his hands. "I don’t know why it happens, but I keep seeing Nasir in place of you. I’m so afraid if him."  
  
"Still?"  
  
Illya nodded slowly.  
  
"You realize, of course, that he can’t hurt you now," Napoleon assured.  
  
"I know, but I can’t get him out of my head."  
  
Napoleon moved slightly closer to Illya.  
  
"Listen, Illya...if staying here is making you uncomfortable, please feel free to leave. Perhaps this was poor judgment on my part..."  
  
"Napoleon? Illya?" a jovial voice called from the doorway.

"Yossi? Uh - we’re a few aisles from the door...to the left," Napoleon called back.

"Aah...there you are," Yossi said, coming around the aisle. "Clean clothing delivery plus a few towels, soap and shampoo, courtesy of UNCLE."

"Uncle Waverly?" Illya asked, raising his eyebrows.

"Yes, I guess you could say that." Yossi smiled.

"Illya," Napoleon started. "I need to get in the shower before the paint melts off these lockers." He smiled as he stood up, glad to leave this awkward situation. "See you gentlemen later." Before leaving, he locked his locker, picked up his towels and toiletries bag, and disappeared into the shower area.

As he walked away, Illya felt the paint on the locker’s surface.

"It really won’t melt, Illya. That’s just an expression..." Yossi explained, noticing Illya’s blank look, "...meaning that his body odor is so penetrating it could remove paint."

Another nod.

"So how are you doing, Illya? I heard you have a mighty powerful swing with that crutch or yours!"

"Sorry?"

"I bumped into Olaf a few minutes ago. He said it’s good to see your strength returning," Yossi mused. "How’s your leg? Let me take a look at it."

Illya rolled up his right pantleg above the bandaged area. Yossi unwrapped the gauze, nodding at the appearance of the wound.

"It’s doing really well. Is the first time you’re showering?" the doctor asked.

There was hesitation in Illya’s voice when he answered "Yes."

"What’s wrong? You can’t remember if you’ve showered in the last few days?"

Illya smiled. "No, I haven’t showered. That I do know."

"What then?"

No response from Illya, although Yossi already knew the answer.

"Are you uncomfortable in here with Napoleon?"

Another nod.

"Why? Is he forcing you to shower with him?"

Hesitation, then finally Illya found his words.

"No. I keep seeing Nasir. Whenever I saw him take off his clothes, I knew what he was going to do." Illya’s voice lowered into a raspy whisper, his eyes downcast. He felt himself starting to shake. "Just now, while Napoleon was getting undressed, all I could see was Nasir. I was afraid that he would hurt me."

"Nasir?"

"No...Napoleon."

"Why do you think Napoleon would want to hurt you?"

"I...I don’t know," Illya replied, shaking his head slowly. "Nasir did."

Yossi smiled, placing his arm around Illya’s shoulders. Illya neither stiffened nor pulled away. "I’ve known Napoleon for many, many years. I can say with certainty that he would not hurt you, and I can definitely guarantee that he would never rape you."

Illya appeared skeptical.

"Napoleon treats his friends well. He’s generous and would literally give you the shirt off his back...uh...that’s another expression."

"But I’m not his friend."

"Yes, you are. Illya, he didn’t ’buy’ you, he rescued you...paid for your freedom. Napoleon has been worried about you since he brought you in. Lord knows he’s driven me nuts about your care." Yossi paused a moment to see Illya’s reaction.

"Why would he do that?" This made no sense to Illya.

"Maybe he felt you needed help, maybe you caught him on a good day, who knows. You were practically on death’s doorstep when you arrived. Napoleon wouldn’t leave your side until you stabilized. The last thing he would want to do is hurt you."

Thinking in the negative, Illya had assumed that his new master’s concern was more mercenary than altruistic or compassionate. "What good is a dead slave?" he asked softly.

"He has no intentions of forcing you to be his slave, and he certainly doesn’t want to be your master. There is nothing to own, Illya. You’re a person, not an object or a possession. Slavery is illegal. Is this making any sense to you?"

"I’m not sure."

"Well, good. At least that’s not a flat-out ’No’. I know it’s hard for you to trust him, but maybe in time, that too will become easier." Yossi once more paused. "Oh...and your concern about him raping you? I’d wager a paycheck against that." Yossi laughed boisterously. "Napoleon is a ladies’ man...or haven’t you noticed. Well, maybe you haven’t noticed...he’s been so involved with you. Anyway, check out what happens when women are around." Yossi became more animated, using gestures to emphasize his point. "He oozes charm...it comes out of ever pore in his body. Women love it. They go absolutely nuts around him."

"Nasir was married," Illya said softly. "That didn’t stop him."

"Aah, but I assume Nasir’s wife rejected that awful little man. He drank alot, didn’t he?"

"Yes. She wouldn’t let him sleep with her...so he would..."

"...come after you, right?"

Illya nodded, shivering slightly.

"Well, knowing Napoleon’s track record, if one woman rejects him, he’s got several others waiting on the sidelines ready to fill the void. Believe me, Illya, he’s not interested in you at all sexually. That I can guarantee. He’s got quite a reputation as a ladies’ man, if you know what I mean." Yossi dramatically winked and then smiled at Illya. Then, he became a little more serious. "If you’re still uncomfortable showering here, you do have other choices. You could go upstairs to your apartment and shower there, or not shower at all. Use your judgment." Yossi paused, looking at his watch. "Listen, I’ve got to run. I’ve scheduled a physical for one of our agents at 6. When you’re done, come upstairs and let me re-bandage that leg for you, all right?"

"Yes, thank you," Illya said as Yossi got up to leave.  
  
Illya entered the shower room just as Napoleon turned off the stream of water in his own stall. He stopped and looked around, wondering where to go. The sound of shower curtain rings scraping their bar caught his attention. He saw a wet arm reach out of the shower and grasp a towel hanging from a nearby hook. The arm and towel vanished behind the curtain, and seconds later, a dripping wet Napoleon exited the stall with the towel once again wrapped around his waist. 

Solo look surprised to see Illya standing there, towel wrapped around his waist as well, with soap, shampoo, and an extra towel in hand. The fluorescent lighting in the shower room blued Illya’s skin a bit, causing the welts and bruises to take on a sickeningly purple hue. Napoleon’s expression remained passive.

"Oh...Hi! I left you some hot water," Napoleon said, motioning to the shower stall.

Illya walked over to the shower and looked inside. Shower head, faucets, drain, curtain. He looked at Napoleon and shrugged slightly. "How do I work this?" he asked.

What took Napoleon by surprise was Illya’s question. He actually asked for help with something he didn’t understand. No hesitation.

"These," Napoleon started, pointing to the faucets, "regulate the water’s temperature. Hot water..." he continued, pointing to the faucet on the left, then to the one on the right, "...cold water. Turn them on a little at a time until you find a comfortable temperature. Remember, you’re putting your entire body under this stream of water..." he pointed to the shower head, "...so find a temperature you like."

Illya nodded.

"Soap, for cleaning your body...shampoo for washing your hair..." Napoleon next pointed to a little shelf niched in the wall. "...these can sit here until you’re ready to use them. 

Solo took the extra towel and placed it on the hook.

"Now, turn on the water and get yourself wet," Napoleon said. "I need another towel. I’ll be back in a minute."

As he walked away, Solo smiled to himself as he heard the faucets turn on. 

Upon his return, Solo heard an unusual sound coming from the shower stall. A ’flopping’ sound, which reoccurred every few seconds.

"Is everything OK, Illya?" Napoleon asked.

"I’m not sure, Mas...Napoleon," Illya corrected himself.

"What’s wrong?"

"The towel keeps falling off me."

Illya was struggling to keep the towel around his waist while he showered, but the water-laden towel kept falling. A hand and arm appeared from outside the shower curtain.

"Give me the towel, please," Napoleon requested from outside the stall.

Illya obliged. A second hand came through the curtain, and the two hands together tightly wrung the majority of the water from the towel, then the hands, arms and towel all withdrew to the other side of the shower curtain.

"The towel is meant to be used on the dry side of the shower, Illya."

"Oh."

"Are you wet yet?"

"Yes."

"Do you know how to use shampoo?"

"No."

"Would you like some help?" Napoleon found it hard walking on the proverbial eggshells. In his previous existence, Illya would have had no problem with Napoleon simply sticking his head in the shower to ask a question. Modesty in their profession was hardly an issue. They had seen each other at their best and worst. But now, Solo was afraid of crossing that line with Illya.

"Yes."

Napoleon parted the curtain slightly, keeping eye contact with Illya.

"Take the bottle of shampoo and pour a little on the palm of your hand."

Illya did just that.

"Now close the bottle...."

Done.

"Rub the shampoo on your hair," Napoleon explained verbally and visually with his own hands and head. "Use both hands...yeah, that’s it."

Illya brought one shampoo lathered hand to his nose, sniffing its fragrance. "This smells good. Fruit?"

Solo sniffed its scent, raised an eyebrow and nodded.

"When you’re done, rinse it under the shower...good...get out all the shampoo...uh...keep it out of your eyes. Oops...tilt your head back a bit. Good. I think you got it all."

"Am I done yet?" Illya asked.

_You never did take long showers, did you_ , Illya, Napoleon thought. _What was it...a bourgeois waste of water?_

"Nope, not yet. Soap is next."

Illya picked up the bar of soap.

"Now, soaping up is a personal thing. Some people use wash clothes...kind of like little towels, and others just rub the soap all over their bodies. Any preferences, Illya?"

Illya shrugged a little. "Not really. I’ll just use the soap by itself."

"Great. You finish up...I’m going to dry off. When you’re done with the soap, rinse yourself off well and then turn off the water in the opposite direction you turned it on. My suggestion is to turn off the hot water first. You won’t get burned that way."

Napoleon closed the shower curtain, but before he could walk away, a hand touched his shoulder. Illya had parted his side of the curtain slightly. A drippy blond head poked out.

"Thank you," he said, smiling a little.

"Any time."

* * * * *

UNCLE’s on-site guest apartment was small, but compact and fully equipped with the necessities for everyday living. Kitchen, bathroom, and one bedroom furnished with two twin beds. Yossi’s objective was making Illya more self sufficient, not depending on himself or Napoleon for his basic needs.

Illya adjusted well. He knew that the environs of the apartment were neutral territory, and he had free reign to come and go as he wished, eat whatever he wanted whenever pleased, and invite his newly found friends over to visit. To help Illya socialize, Napoleon made sure that different agents would "stop by" to chat or have a bite to eat.

At first, Illya was a little uncomfortable with these new people, but they befriended him and soon he acclimated to being around them. Ari taught Illya how to play pinochle. In a short period of time, Illya learned and mastered the game. His skill amazed Napoleon. After playing a few games, Illya knew who had pieces of trump and exactly which cards they held. His dependency on both Napoleon and Yossi lessened as time passed.

Illya now felt less threatened by Napoleon. He let down his guard a bit, and allowed himself the luxury of asking questions, something he dared not do before, absorbing all the information Napoleon would give him. Illya also became more trusting, and although he still did not particularly like being touched, he would not overtly move away if Napoleon did so.

Yossi and Napoleon made arrangements to meet one afternoon while Illya was having a reading lesson.

"He’s really loosened up," Napoleon started. "The change is dramatic. I don’t think he’s afraid of me anymore."

"Well, he’s starting to trust you. But don’t over estimate him. There’s still a small part of him that considers you his ’Master’."

"What makes you say that?"

"Oh, something in his eyes. Now that really sounds professional, doesn’t it?" Yossi laughed. "Honestly, though. He has come a long way, but don’t be surprised if he reverts back at some point."

"Really?"

"Remember when I brought his clothes to the locker room? The poor guy was a mass of nerves. Terrified still that you were going to either beat him or rape him. I told him that wasn’t in your nature."

"I told him that also. It didn’t seem to help."

"Aah...but there’s the difference. I didn’t buy him, you did. I have no ulterior motives. You he has to listen to, but not me. He chose to accept my council."

"Well, what exactly did you tell him?"

"For starters, that he can trust you...that you are a true friend to him and have no intentions of hurting him. I also told him that you didn’t ’buy’ him, but rather you rescued him. And finally," Yossi paused for a few seconds, laughing, "...that you are a womanizing skirt-chaser. Need I say more?"

* * * * *

The nightmares continued, and Illya was still reluctant to talk about them. Yossi counseled him periodically, trying to get him to open up and discuss what was tormenting him deep within his soul. Dr. Schwenk was due back from his vacation in a week and a half, and his first order of business would be looking into Illya’s situation. Although Yossi did not hold Dr. Schwenk in the highest regard, he agreed to make his files available to the behaviorist, hoping that his insight would facilitate Illya’s recovery.


	4. Chapter 4

Mr. Waverly felt that Napoleon should start slightly distancing himself from Illya. He gave his senior agent short-term assignments which took him out of headquarters, leaving Illya to fend for himself. At first, Illya was uneasy with the separation, but once he realized that he was able to cope on his own, the time apart was acceptable. After a while, Illya found he rather enjoyed a little solitude, spending time reading or simply listening to music.

Cabin fever set in a short while later. Napoleon recognized the symptoms. Restlessness. Edginess. Illya had been in the safe confines of UNCLE’s Sahara headquarters for almost four weeks, healing, gaining strength and flexing his mental muscles. During this time, Illya had not seen the true light of day, so Napoleon felt it was time for a "day trip" outside of UNCLE.

"Any desire to go for a drive today?" Napoleon asked Illya after breakfast.

The blond smiled. "Where to?"

"Well, you haven’t been outside for a while. Want to go to the bazaar?"

Illya thought for a moment. The bazaar. His last visit there was when Nasir placed him on the auction block, not the most pleasant of experiences. But he would be with Napoleon this time. Why not? Illya nodded in agreement. They dressed in loose white shirts and trousers, and covered their heads with burnooses, hoping to blend in with the crowd.

Napoleon wanted this to be a "fishing expedition" also. The blond agent had not surfaced in several weeks, and Solo wondered if any Thrush eyes or ears would be out there looking for him. He arranged for incognito back-up agents to follow them through the crowds, in case Thrush decided they wanted Illya back again.

The drive in Napoleon’s jeep was more pleasant than the last. Illya was pain free and able to enjoy the ride. The cooler morning air felt refreshing against his face. He closed his eyes, enjoying the sensation.

As they neared the parking area, Napoleon activated his communicator, informing UNCLE that he had arrived. The switchboard connected him with the four other agents who were already at the bazaar, making visual contact with his jeep. Napoleon pulled a mesh bag from the back seat of the jeep, and the two men left the vehicle. "You’re more familiar with this place than I am, Illya. Why don’t you show me around a bit," Napoleon requested.

Illya’s familiarity was limited. The few times he had been there were to provide physical labor, loading and unloading Muhammed’s copper. Occasionally, Irana would have him carry food she purchased while her husband and brother-in-law peddled their wares. His final visit to the bazaar was horrendous.

They strolled through the crowded aisles, listening to the peddlers hawk their foods and wares. The air reverberated with the sounds of people haggling prices, arguing over the quality of the goods, and informing the merchants they could get it cheaper a few stalls away. The merchants usually gave in, selling their goods at a lower price. It was a ritual, a game. Napoleon kept an eye peeled for his fellow agents. At least one was always in sight, blending perfectly into the crowd.

Along the way, the two men bought all the food they wanted. Illya did most of the haggling. Napoleon insisted on it, claiming that Illya’s Arabic was better than his own. Illya was a natural, relentlessly haggling with the peddlers until they met his price. Solo smiled to himself...his friend had a evolved dramatically in the past four weeks.

As Illya was finishing one deal, Napoleon walked ahead, admiring hammered copper bowls and trays. The workmanship was exquisite. The rather large man behind the table let him peruse the wares in silence. Napoleon picked up several pieces, observing the sunlight playing off their intricacies. He would wait for Illya to catch up before discussing prices with the big man.

Suddenly, the big man rose from his chair.

"Illya?" His voice was booming.

As Illya came nearer, the big man came out from behind the table and embraced him in a smothering bear hug.

"You’re the last person I ever expected to see!" the big man exclaimed.

When the hug was released, Napoleon could see a big smile across Illya’s face.

"Look at you! You look wonderful!" he boomed, once more embracing the smaller man.

Napoleon cleared his throat, gaining Illya’s attention.

Still smiling, Illya made the introductions.

"Napoleon, this is Muhammed, Nasir’s brother-in-law. He’s the artist who designed all this copper," Illya said. "Muhammed, this is Napoleon."

"Aah, Illya’s new master?"

"For lack of better words, yes," Napoleon replied.

"He looks great...uh, Napoleon?" Muhammed was uncertain about the name.

"Yes, Napoleon," he replied, shaking Muhammed’s hand.

"Look how big you’ve gotten!" Muhammed remarked, feeling Illya’s upper arms. "How is your leg, Illya? All healed?"

They talked amicably for a few moments. Napoleon observed his fellow agents coming closer to assist, but sensing that they were safe, the senior agent signaled for them to maintain their distance.

"I see the copper I polished still shines," Illya commented, smiling.

It all began to fit together for Napoleon. Muhammed, the man who removed the bullet from Illya’s leg. Muhammed, Nasir’s brother-in-law who left the copper which Illya polished for hours on end.

Illya turned to Napoleon.

"Muhammed’s a very kind man. He and Mara invited me in many times."

"A social call?" Napoleon asked.

"No, not really." Illya turned and smiled at Muhammed. "He would tell Nasir he needed me to assist him. Nasir would be more than willing to let me go. But Muhammed never had any work for me to do. Instead, they would give me food and let me relax a little." He paused a few seconds. "Mara makes great mint tea."

Muhammed smiled, knowing why Illya enjoyed it so much.

Napoleon was touched by Muhammed’s humanity. At least Illya had a little solace while enslaved. A far cry from Nasir.

"You’re not going to believe this, Illya, but I don’t have that broken down truck any more...come here...take a look at what I’m driving now!" Muhammed escorted both Illya and Napoleon behind his tent to a late 1950’s silver Mercedes Benz. "Nice, eh? Runs like a charm!"

Napoleon walked around the vehicle, eyeing its features. "Did you just buy it?"

"No...it’s actually a loan. My daughter and her husband went to America to look for work, and left me the car to babysit. Nice arrangement, eh?"

"What kind of work do they do?" Napoleon asked.

"My daughter, Penina, is a pharmacist. Abdul, her husband just became an engineer. There isn’t much work for a professional woman here in the desert, so they moved to New York, hoping to find work. Unfortunately, neither of them can find jobs in their professions. Penina is waiting tables in a coffee shop and Abdul is now driving a cab. They keep trying, though. Eventually, something will come up. If not, they’ll come back home and I’ll have to hunt for another car."

They talked a bit longer. Before leaving, Napoleon selected several pieces of copper which he had admired. Muhammed did not want to take any money for them, thrilled to see that Illya’s new master had taken such good care of him. But Napoleon insisted, and refused to let Illya haggle the price.

"Just to warn you, Illya, Nasir came with me today. He’s wandering around somewhere. You might bump into him," Muhammed cautioned.

Illya nodded and thanked the big man for the warning. He then embraced Muhammed, asked him to give Mara a hug as well, and said his goodbyes.

As they walked away, Napoleon asked Illya a little more about Muhammed. "He’s been very good to me. I don’t think I’d be alive if he hadn’t helped me out...on many occasions," Illya explained.  
  


_"Don’t even think of walking away from me!" Nasir shrieked.  
_

_Nasir and his wife were planning to attend his nephew’s wedding in a distant village. A terrified Illya balked at the idea of being shackled to a post for three or four days while they were away. Each time Nasir tried to grab his slave in the darkness, his moves were averted, making him even angrier.  
_

_"Please, Master...don’t chain me while you’re away. I won’t..."  
_

_"Don’t argue with me!" Nasir roared, trying once again to grasp Illya. It was dark out. The only available light was a dim flicker radiating from the tent.  
_

_Illya tripped while backing away, and Nasir seized the opportunity to lash out at Illya while he was down. Grabbing the blond hair to steady his slave, Nasir took full advantage of his position to beat Illya mercilessly. More vicious than usual. Between blows, he slowly dragged Illya back to the tent. Nasir pulled off his slave’s shirt and continued the beating on bare flesh.  
_

_Nasir stopped momentarily, yanking Illya’s head back. "I’d rather kill you than let you escape," the master hissed.  
_

_"I...I...won’t leave...I promise...please don’t..." Illya never finished the plea. Nasir continued the abuse.  
_

_Finally, Illya could no longer suppress his pain and began screaming, begging him to stop. After several more blows, Nasir grasped Illya’s wrist and locked the shackle around it. Too weak to stand and too uncomfortable to sit, he crumpled to the ground gasping in pain.  
_

_Muhammed heard the commotion and came to Nasir’s tent just as Illya was being locked to the post.  
_

_"What the hell is all that bellowing about?" Muhammed yelled, looking down at Illya. "Mara and I are trying to get to sleep."  
_

_"This little piece of shit was trying to escape. I had to teach him a lesson," Nasir explained, kicking Illya as he spoke.  
_

_"Escape?" the big man chuckled, nudging Nasir. "And give up all this?"  
_

_They spoke a few minutes, and as Muhammed turned to leave, Nasir stopped him to ask a favor. "Irana and I are going away for a few days. We’re leaving Illya here," he said, pointing to his shackled slave. "Could you stop by once or twice a day and give him water? That should keep him alive while we’re gone."  
_

_Muhammed was infuriated, but refused to let it show. His brother-in-law was treating Illya worse than he would treat a dog, and the thought of leaving this slave tied to a pole for several days sickened him.  
_

_"I’ll do you one better, Nasir. I have a lot of work to do this week. I can take him off your hands for a while. And don’t worry, he won’t escape from me. I can promise you that," Muhammed said, looking down at the slave. "Right, Illya?"  
_

_Illya looked down and nodded, relieved when Nasir finally unlocked the shackle. The master roughly dragged him to his feet and handed him over to Muhammed, along with the shirt he had removed. He slowly pulled the shirt over his head.  
_

_"If he gives you any trouble, just bring him back...and don’t even worry about the water. It’s no loss if he dies."  
_

_Nasir went back into his tent before Illya and Muhammed disappeared into the inky darkness. As they walked away from Nasir, Muhammed held on to Illya’s shirt, attempting to look authoritative. Illya’s pace slackened shortly before reaching their destination, then came to a halt. Muhammed knew that Illya was losing consciousness as the shirt became "heavy." In one smooth motion, he stooped down and lifted Illya over his shoulder, carrying him the rest of the way.  
_

_He and Mara placed a clean sheet on the floor of their living area and laid Illya down upon it. They carefully removed his clothing, cleaned the newly inflicted wounds, and covered him with another sheet.  
_

_A dull pain grew into a more intense one as Illya regained consciousness. Someone placed him on his belly. He looked around as much as he could without moving his body, recognizing Muhammed’s tent. His shirt was missing. He reached down and touched his leg. His trousers were missing as well. Memories of the evening’s abuse flooded back to him. He was mentally screaming, but didn’t realize that some of it had verbalized until Mara entered the room. He tried to speak, but Mara stopped him, telling him to stay as calm as possible.  
_

_Something dipped into water. The next sound was water dripping. A cool cloth was placed on the back of his neck, then moved to his forehead. Someone lifted his head and placed a pillow under it. No...not a pillow...it moved slightly when the cloth was placed on his neck again. It was a lap. Mara’s lap.  
_

_The water sounds again, another cool cloth. A gentle voice telling him to relax while a delicate hand rubbed his temples. Illya couldn’t stop the tears, and let them shamelessly fall from his eyes.  
_

_A large man walked closer. Through tear-blurred vision, Illya didn’t recognize him and withdrew slightly from his touch. The man spoke and Illya relaxed. Muhammed was offering him water. Too weak to drink, Illya declined. Muhammed insisted, then raised the blond slave’s head, bringing a cup to his lips, encouraging a few sips. Then a few more. Followed by a few more.  
_

_Illya fell asleep a short while later. Not a deep, restful sleep. He woke several times in pain, crying out softly or sobbing. Each time, Mara’s gentle hands and voice lulled him back to sleep.  
_

_The remaining few days with Muhammed and Mara gave Illya a chance to recuperate and regain a little of his strength. They let him sleep as much as he needed, and fed him when he was able to eat. He felt eternally grateful to his hosts, who asked for nothing in return. They were truly generous friends._

  
  
They walked a little farther, Napoleon constantly making sure his fellow agents were somewhere in view. A short distance ahead was the café where Napoleon sat several weeks earlier, hearing the sounds of the auction arena.

"I’m getting a little hungry. Could you go for a bite?" Napoleon asked.

Illya smiled, beginning to understand Napoleon’s colloquialisms, no longer taking each word at its literal meaning. He nodded.

"What are they serving today?"

The blond walked over to the counter to see what was available while Napoleon found a table for the two of them.

Illya went over the bill of fare with Napoleon. They decided on what they wanted, then Napoleon handed Illya a few bills to pay for the food.

After the order was placed, Illya patiently waited at the counter. He failed to see Nasir standing behind him.

"Well, well...look who it is," Nasir started.

Illya felt the hair at the nape of his neck stand up at the sound of his voice.

Napoleon watched the verbal exchange from a distance. His agents observed as well, but Solo signaled for them to once again hold back.

Nasir and Illya talked for a moment or two. At first, Illya’s eyes cast downward, afraid to make contact with his former master. Then, Napoleon observed Illya’s head lift, and the blue eyes met Nasir’s. During the conversation, Nasir grabbed Illya’s shirt collar, pulling him upright and closer to him. Louder words were exchanged, then Nasir grabbed the riding crop with his free hand and raised it in the air, ready to strike. Illya closed his eyes and turned his head away. The blow never came.

Illya’s eyes opened. Nasir still had a firm grasp on his shirt, but his raised arm was held immobile in Napoleon’s strong grip.

With eyes glaring at Nasir, Illya spoke a few more words in Arabic. Finally, Nasir let go of the shirt. Napoleon released his grasp as well. This was neither the time or place to create a scene. Nasir squared his shoulders, and walked away.

The café owner hastily gave Illya his food, took the money and heaved a sigh of relief when the three men moved away from his counter.

Their table was still vacant, so they sat down with their meal. Napoleon immediately began eating.

"So, what just happened?" Napoleon asked, hoping Illya would explain the incident.

Still shaken a little, Illya poked at his food, hesitant to talk.

"Well?" Napoleon looked him directly in the eyes, raising his eyebrows with the question.

"He told me I looked well, so I thanked him," Illya began, bring his eyes directly into Napoleon’s gaze. The scent of the food enticed him, so he began eating as well. "I tried to use my words...express myself, like you told me. I was even polite."

"That’s a good start. What happened next."

"He commented on how healthy I was, and that he thought I would have been dead by now. Then he said that you must have been very foolish to buy me...a stupid American who probably only wanted an ignorant slave for sexual favors." Illya stopped, ruminating their verbal exchange, and smiled a little.

"Is that when he grabbed your shirt?"

"No. I told him that you were a decent man, who saw to it I got medical help and plenty of food to eat. I also told him that you haven’t beaten or raped me. That’s when he grabbed my shirt, calling me an ’Insolent Piece of Shit’ and demanding I show him respect."

"And after that...?"

"Oh, I asked him why I should show him any respect at all...that’s when he raised his arm to hit me."

"Well, you definitely expressed yourself. I’m proud of you," Napoleon smiled, elbowing his friend in jest.

"I never saw you coming, but I’m thankful you stopped him from hitting me."

"Your eyes were closed."

Illya had no response for Napoleon’s comment.

"So, how did you get him to release you?" Solo asked, taking in another mouthful of food.

A quite laugh came from Illya. "I simply told him that you would probably break his arm if he didn’t let go." He paused a moment. "Just what does ’insolent’ mean anyway?"  
  
They finished their meal and walked back to the jeep.

"I’m still afraid of him," Illya started quietly. "It took a lot for me to look him in the eye. When he raised his arm, I thought for sure he was going to hit me. I felt like he still owned me. If you weren’t there, he probably would have taken me away with him, making me his slave again. That’s what scares me the most."

"Well," Napoleon started, putting his arm around Illya’s shoulder as they walked, "we’ll just have to teach you to defend yourself. All right?"

Illya nodded.

* * * * *

The pile of unfinished paperwork was mounting. When Solo and Illya returned from their trip to bazaar by early afternoon, Napoleon took the opportunity to catch up on some of if. Illya was working with Ms. Singer, who found it amazing that after only a few short weeks of tutoring, he had progressed to high school level work. Napoleon procrastinated completing his reports, which meant compiling her results, along with his own, which would then be sent to Yossi, who would in turn add his current evaluations. After several hours of writing, his task was completed, and he triumphantly marched the files to Dr. Shapiro’s office.

Yossi’s eyes were staring into a microscope as he gently twisted the focus knob. He stopped only momentarily to jot his findings. Napoleon cleared his throat loudly to get his attention.

"Ah, good afternoon, Mr. Solo. What brings you here to my inner sanctum?"

"More paperwork, Dr. Shapiro," he answered cheerfully. "I’m all done...it’s your turn now."

"You’re just too kind to me. What have I ever done to deserve such a friend?"

"Good clean living, I presume."

Yossi raised up his arms, stretching. "So, Napoleon, what have you been up to lately?"

"Illya and I took a field trip to the bazaar this morning. I finally met Muhammed...you know, the fellow who took the bullet out of his leg. Decent guy. Does beautiful copper work. And...I also met Nasir face-to-face...well, sort of. He ran into Illya while we were at a café. They had a minor confrontation."

"Did you have to step in?"

"Only when he was about be hit again. He held his own with Nasir until then. I’ve wondered how he would handle meeting him. He’s still afraid of the man ...and afraid that Nasir would enslave him again. I think he’s ready for self defense training. I’ll check with Olaf to see if he has time for Illya."

"Hmmm...after that incident with the crutches, I don’t know..." Yossi mused.

"Anyway, here are the files I finished. You can add your two cents now. This ought to keep you off street corners for a while!"

Yossi signed. "Yes, looks like I’ll be here half the night. My wife is going to kill me." He paused a moment. "Eh, maybe not. Tonight’s her pinochle night."

"Well, I have a hot date, so I’m heading off for a shower."

"Just one?" Yossi asked.

"Date or shower?" Napoleon joked as the door slid closed behind him.

According to Napoleon’s standards, the man had practically been a monk the past few weeks. So intent on Illya’s recovery, he spent the majority of his time with him and not in the company of ravishing beauty. Even Dr. Shapiro was getting a little concerned. Very uncharacteristic for the ever-charming Napoleon Solo. 

Yesterday, Napoleon was introduced to Leila, the lovely voice on the other end of his communicator. She was unavailable for dinner that evening, so Napoleon insisted they have dinner tonight.

Yossi recommended a romantic little restaurant several blocks from headquarters. Napoleon planned to wine and dine Leila, then find a quiet spot for the two of them to get to know each other better, perhaps even become intimate. He even toyed with the idea of asking Leila if she had an unattached friend for Illya, but each time he approached the subject of women, Illya shied away worse than before.

The hot shower pulsing over his body invigorated Solo. The bathroom was steamy, and Napoleon had to wipe off the mirror to see how badly he needed a shave. He rubbed his chin and decided to rid himself of his five-o’clock-shadow, following it with a splash of after shave.

Illya was reading a book in the living room when Napoleon emerged. In the past, his blond friend would smirk and reel off a smart remark about his sexual habits, but tonight, Illya was quiet. Too quiet. Napoleon had second thoughts about going out.

"So, what’s on your agenda tonight, Illya?" Solo asked.

"Ari and I are meeting for dinner, and then I plan to finish this book." He smiled a little, as if some memory connected Napoleon with the ladies. Or maybe it was what Yossi told him. Oozing charm and all that.

"Would you like me to see if she has a friend for you? Ladies do that, you know. The single ones ALWAYS have friends!" Napoleon offered.

Illya chuckled. "No thanks, Napoleon. At the moment, I prefer to avoid that mess."

"I understand. See you later then."

Their date became a long, romantic event. The restaurant was just how Yossi described it. Small, dark, cozy. No traditional Western tables and chairs furnished the room. Rather, large plump pillows were arranged around low tables. Service was wonderfully slow. Napoleon and Leila lounged on the cushions, nestled together in the cozy atmosphere. Solo made sure their wine glasses were always filled. He took advantage of the circumstances to hold her in his arms and whisper intoxicatingly sensual tidbits into her ear, nibbling her earlobe and brushing her neck with his lips.

When their food arrived, it was almost an inconvenience. Deep inside, Napoleon wanted to rush through the meal (or forget it altogether), then whisk her off somewhere quiet and make love the rest of the night. His juices were flowing and dinner was no longer important for him. Leila, on the other hand, was hungry and a not quite as ready to jump into bed as Napoleon.

So they ate the wonderful meal set before them, followed by mint tea and a tray of sweet desserts. When they finished, Napoleon stood up first then helped his lady to her feet. They exited the restaurant, and entered Napoleon’s car. Just as he was ready to discuss the rest of the evening’s plans when one of their communicators sounded. In unison, they checked their pens. Leila’s supervisor needed her to fill in for communications employee who was supposed to be on duty from midnight until 8 am. She was due back from vacation in Portugal, but her flight was canceled. Leila sighed and agreed to do so.

Napoleon checked his watch. 11 pm. Only on hour. He recommended going back to headquarters and spending a little quality time with him in the apartment. She agreed.

The couple hurried back to headquarters, where Napoleon ushered her into the apartment, pulling Leila into a tight embrace the moment the door closed behind them. As Solo turn his lovely date around, guiding her towards the couch, he noticed a thin bar of light shining from under the bedroom door. After gently lowering Leila on the sofa, he tenderly kissed her again.

"Hold that thought." he murmured softly, stroking her hair.

Napoleon slowly opened the bedroom door. Illya looked up from his book.

"I thought I heard you come in," he smiled. "How was your evening out?"

After a brief explanation, Solo bid Illya a good night, and returned to the living room.

"He’s about to hit the sack...I told him we’ll be quiet," Napoleon purred, moving close to Leila. She giggled as he placed his strong arms around her, once again embracing and kissing her passionately. Leila returned to work a mere few minutes late that night.

After Leila left, Napoleon went into the bedroom. Illya was asleep, but extremely restless. Their encounter with Nasir was taking its toll on Illya’s sleep. The nightmares never really ended, only slackened a bit. Illya still refused to discuss them, so his dark secrets remained locked deep inside.

_Nasir and Muhammed were working at the bazaar all day. It was still early, and Illya had just begun cleaning and polishing the pile of copper that they would take on their next trip._

_The silence was interrupted by Irana calling his name._

_"I need some help inside. Would you come with me?" she asked._

_"I can’t," Illya protested. "My master wanted all this copper finished by the time he came back."_

_"It won’t take long. Besides, Nasir will not be to happy if he hears that you’re disobeying me."_

_Reluctantly, Illya followed her into the tent. Irana turned around and placed her arms around Illya’s torso, feeling the slender body beneath the shirt. Then her hands lifted the cloth, rubbing his bare skin._

_"I want to see what excites my husband so," she said, starting to pull the shirt over his head._

_"Please...madam...don’t. My master would kill me if he knew I was in here with you."_

_"He doesn’t have to know, does he?" she purred._

_Illya tried backing away, but she persisted, once again threatening to tell her husband of his denial._

_The slave stood still, allowing Nasir’s wife to undress him. The shirt first. She sensually moved her hands over his body, tracing each protruding rib, causing small shockwaves to course through him. Moving around him, she rested her chest against his back, lightly running her hands over his chest, focusing on his nipples. Illya shuddered at the sensation, closing his eyes. His breathing became more rapid, and he gently panted with his mouth slightly open._

_The soft hands slid under the waistband of his loose fitting trousers, cupping his buttocks then moving around his hips to his genitals. Illya looked down, aware that his own penis was becoming erect. Panic began to set in. Despite the pleasurable sensations he was feeling, he knew this was taboo._

_"Shhh," she cooed, placing her hands around the enlarged shaft, gently massaging him._

_Nasir’s wife lowered his trousers until they fell loosely around his ankles. He stood still, unable to move. She coaxed one foot at a time out of the heap on the floor, and while still holding him, moved around until they faced each other._

_"Undress me," she quietly ordered._

_Illya was gasping. "I...I...can’t...Please stop. Nasir will be very angry."_

_"He’ll never know. Now undress me."_

_With shaking hands, Illya began removing her garments one by one, dropping them on the floor around her, until she stood before him totally nude. He stared at the contours of her skin, the gentle mounds of her breasts, the curve of her hips, the soft tufts of hair between her thighs. It was exhilarating, exciting. His penis throbbed._

_"Have you ever laid with a woman?" she asked gently, caressing him._

_He shook his head, afraid to speak or move._

_"Let’s see if you’re as good as Nasir feels you are."_

_Irana brought him over to her mattress, coaxing him to lie down next to her. His cock ached, ready to burst. She lay on her back and drew him closer, spreading her thighs as she positioned him on top of her. Gently, she held his penis and guided it inside her. Illya gasped and closed his eyes. The sensation was unmistakably incredible._

_With her hands on Illya’s hips, she gently rocked him back and forth. "Now, move yourself in and out a little...no, not too much...you don’t want to slip out completely...aah, just like that."_

_Illya found a natural rhythm, and slowly moved within her. When the feeling demanded more urgency and he quickened his pace, finally erupting into a climax. The blond slave never looked down to see how his partner was enjoying it. He was too self-absorbed in his own pleasure to notice that Irana was in ecstasy. Nasir rarely brought her to an orgasm._

_They lay side by side afterwards in silence, panting, regaining their composure. Illya was unsure what to do next. His initial instinct was to get up, put his clothing back on and return to work. Was that appropriate? Should he stay a while longer? The mattress proved more comfortable than his mat...sex with Irana was wonderful._

_After several minutes, Irana turned on her side, facing Illya. She stroked his pale yellow hair and smiled lazily. "I’ve never seen such beautiful hair on a man before. Hmmm. Well, I can see what attracts Nasir to you," Irana cooed, moving her hand down his neck and on to his chest, caressing each inch until goosebumps formed on his skin._

_He quivered slightly, soaking in the sensations as they began flooding throughout his body again. Irana next took his right hand and placed it on her breasts. Illya began caressing her with small, circular motions, widening the arcs of his movements until he descended down her belly to her thighs. He tenderly massaged the warm soft folds around her vagina, still wet from sex. Irana guided his fingers to her clitoris, and as he teased her with more gentle circles. She moaned softly, her arousal intensifying._

_She looked over at Illya who was as aroused as she. With effortless agility, Irana positioned herself astride Illya’s erection and slowly began teasing his cock, first by gently brushing the head of his penis with her pubic hairs, then baiting him by barely allowing him inside of her. Illya wanted to feel that incredible sensation of being within her once more, but Irana was making it difficult this time, enjoying every tantalizing moment. Finally, Illya grasped her hips, lowering her around his swollen penis. He guided her movements up and down, their bodies melding together as they climaxed._

_Illya was content, satisfied, ready to leave. Irana wasn’t. She wanted more, and the demands to perform throughout the morning became increasingly wearing and stressful. What began as an extremely pleasurable interlude for Illya became a tedious duty, a task, something he was being forced to do. Like sex with Nasir, it was now against his will. Irana would not relent. She became insatiable, languishing in the sensation of sex with her "own personal" slave. Drained, Illya’s performance diminished with each episode. Irana became increasingly irate, harshly ridiculing and berating him, and finally dismissed him from her bed. He dressed as quickly as possible and returned to his work tent. Once Illya left, Irana drew a thin sheet around her as she turned over and quickly fell asleep._

_Eyeing the sky, Illya assumed it must have been late afternoon. Panic set in when he realized that Nasir and Muhammed would soon be returning, only to find that the work left for him was uncompleted. The blond slave picked up a polishing rag and immediately began shining the surfaces of the copper wares._

_His anxiety level peaked when he heard the familiar sound of Muhammed’s old truck approaching. The gears ground and brakes squealed to a halt for Nasir to exit. A few words passed between them before the Master came into the work tent to see how much of the work had been completed._

_"Looks like you haven’t been busy at all today, have you?" Nasir started. He walked closer to Illya, quickly scrutinizing the few pieces which were finished. "What the hell have you been doing here? These should have all been finished by now. Why aren’t they done?" His voice was getting louder, his motions more menacing. Nasir finally grabbed Illya by the collar and brought him face-to-face. "I asked you a question. Answer me!"_

_Illya couldn’t find the words to describe the day’s events, not without causing his master to become more irate. He remained silent. Nasir raised his riding crop in anger, driving several hard blows into Illya before asking again._

_"Well?" Nasir shouted._

_"Your wife wanted me for part of the day," Illya responded almost inaudibly._

_"Wanted you? For what?"_

_"I...she..." Illya fumbled for an explanation, only to be repeatedly hit again._

_Nasir released the shirt and rushed into his tent. Irana was still asleep, nude under the sheets. He squatted next to the mattress, nudging his wife awake._

_"Has Illya been with you today?"_

_She sleepily nodded and smiled, then rolled over to continue her nap._

_"Irana," he began loudly. "What exactly did he do here?"_

_His wife rolled back to face him and propped herself up on one elbow. "Something you obviously can’t."_

_With that response, Nasir stood up and stormed outside to the work tent._

_"You slept with my wife?" he shrieked._

_"I didn’t sleep," he answered innocently, trembling at Nasir’s display of rage._

_"How long were you with her?" Nasir asked, coming closer, ready to strike._

_"I...I...don’t...remember, Master. S-s-she wouldn’t let me leave..." The blows began. Nasir struck haphazardly at first, then specifically aimed them at Illya’s more sensitive genital areas. The pain forced the slave to double over and eventually fall to the ground, rolling into a ball for protection. Nasir continued the blows on his back and legs, stopping only when he himself had worn out._

The painful cries woke Solo from a sound sleep. Napoleon shook his friend’s shoulders, trying to rouse him.

"C’mon, wake up. It’s only a dream, Illya."

Illya did not hear him, and rolled over on his side, as if trying to escape his touch. The cries diminished into softer moans as he lulled back into uneasy sleep.

_Thin lines of red spread into wider ones as broken areas of skin bled through Illya’s clothing. Too stunned to move, he lay still until Nasir brought him to his feet, dragging him to the work table. The Master disappeared momentarily, but too soon returned with the chain and shackle normally used to tether Illya at night. This time, he attached the chain to the table leg, and the shackle to Illya’s ankle._

_"I want this work finished. I don’t care how long it takes you," he rasped, leaving abruptly._

_Illya leaned heavily on the table, too weak to stand on his own. The pain from the beating overrode the hunger and humiliation he felt. He allowed himself a few more moments to settle down, then dutifully picked up the polish cloth and continued his work._

_Several hours passed. Neither the pain or hunger dulled, but he finished polishing the pile of copper wares. As he slowed down his pace, the aroma of food drifted his way. Nasir and Irana left the remains of their dinner in a heavy cast iron lidded pot suspended above a dying fire. Illya couldn’t identify the smell...either lamb or beef...but it was food._

_The chain was not very long. To reach the pot, Illya would have to drag the table near the opening of the work tent. He carefully removed the copper then tugged at the table little by little until he could reach the food._

_Illya lifted the lid and set it next to a nearby rock. The scent enticed him. He picked up a serving spoon nestled on the rock and began scooping a ladle full of food to his mouth. Soon after he began eating, the lid slipped and created a loud metallic_ _"clang," intensified with the stillness of the night._

_Nasir awoke with the commotion. Assuming it was a prowler or predator, he loaded his rifle before going outside and shot off a round before actually looking to see who or what was near his food. Illya heard him coming and backed away, hoping that Nasir wouldn’t catch him stealing. But he was unable to escape the bullet which lodged in his right thigh. The slave fell to the ground, crying out as the white-hot pain seared through his leg._

_Much of what happened next was a blur. Illya looked up at Nasir. The pain caused by the bullet blended into the beating he was now receiving. In the midst of this, a bewildered Muhammed arrived. Nasir stopped hitting for a few moments and explained the situation to his brother-in-law, wild gesticulations enhancing the account. Muhammed bent down over the fallen Illya. The big man said that the bullet needed to be removed. Nasir continued shrieking. Quietly, Muhammed got up and dragged Illya into the work tent as carefully as possible. He tugged at the blood-soaked pant leg, tearing it so he could see the wound. The lamp created enough light for him to dislodge the bullet._

_Muhammed then placed his knife in the dwindling flame of the fire, hoping to sterilize it as best possible. A few minutes later, he returned, waving the knife in the night air to cool it before slicing into Illya’s thigh._

_"Please...don’t...." Illya pleaded, anticipating the pain of the knife entering his leg. He tried holding back Muhammed’s wrist as he came nearer, but the big man shook him off and moved closer._

_"It’s either remove the bullet or lose your leg, Illya," he explained with sobering eyes._

_Illya turned his head and tightly shut his eyes. He felt the heat of the knife as it came close to contact with his skin. Next he felt the blade touching him...he grimiced...then screamed when his skin was cut. Finally blackness._

Napoleon bolted out of bed at the sounds of Illya’s screams. He sat next to his friend, sitting him upright to wake him. Like before, he was unable to bring Illya out of this night terror, and again, he was concerned. He held Illya and rocked him a little, hoping that safe human contact, whether or not he was cognizant of it, would bring him some measure of comfort. And like before, the screams settled into moans, and then more restless sleep.

He laid Illya back down and covered him, hoping that this was the last episode. Napoleon got up and called Yossi from the living room, glad to hear that the doctor had not gone home yet.

"Home? I’m still working on all the damned files you gave me. And nowhere in these files did I see you write anything about my overtime payments."

"Sorry, old friend," Napoleon apologized.

"Isn’t this a little early for you to be back from your hot date? Did she cool off a bit too soon?"

Solo laughed. "No, duty called. She had to work the graveyard shift."

"Awww, too bad," Yossi responded with mock sympathy.

"On a more serious note, I’m glad you’re still here. Got a minute?"

_At some point during the night, Illya drifted back into consciousness. He was cold, shivering despite the blanket which covered him. Someone was moving his leg. The pain was intense. It was unclear why his leg hurt him so. The memory of being shot slowly came to him. He moaned loudly as something was being unwrapped from his thigh. An irate voice ordered him to be quiet._

_When his vision focused, he saw Nasir removing a blood-soaked bandage from around the wound. Illya tried moving his leg away, but the Master kept a firm grip on him. The chain rattled as Illya tried restlessly repositioning himself. The pain eventually surpassed his threshold and Illya was no longer able to maintain silence._

_The screams were gut wrenching. The pain seemed worse than when the bullet pierced his thigh. Was Muhammed able to remove it or was it still inside him? Would he lose the leg?_

_Nasir was unsympathetic to his agony and once again demanded silence. He stood up after the bandage was finally removed and fetched his crop, wordlessly brandishing it in front of Illya’s face. Illya was unable to comply._

_The first blow hit the wound. The slave’s body spasmed momentarily as he gasped to catch his breath. A second blow to the leg, then a third. Illya continued to scream, hoping that Nasir would continue the beating until death rescued him from this hellish life. After several more lashes, his world once again blackened and the pain ceased._

_Soft pinkish light filtered through the slits in his eyelids. Someone was trying to wake him from the peaceful blackness he finally succumbed to. Grunting, he shook his head "no" in hopes that this person would go away. Words began to make sense through his haze, and he was being instructed to wake up. A harsh hand slapped his face. The stinging sensation brought reality a little closer as the murky unconsciousness began to fade._

_"...get you cleaned up and on our way..." a voice rasped as someone began removing what was left of his blood-splattered clothing. "...will want you looking like this..." the voice continued. Cold water and a rough cloth scrubbing his face and neck brought him closer to consciousness. Then the familiar sensation of removing the bandage reoccurred. Almost fully awake now, the slave watched his master replace another blood-soaked dressing with a fresh one, and then proceeded to unroll several feet of duct tape and wrap it around the bandage, the edges of the tape adhering to his skin. "...keep the blood from dripping down your leg for a while..." Clean clothing was tossed to him. "...now get dressed..."_

_Illya slowly found the strength to dress himself in the white tunic and trousers. To his surprise, Nasir brought over a chunk of bread and a large cup of water and told him to eat quickly, or they would be late._

_Nasir left for a moment, then returned with his camel in tow. The beast’s spindly legs came to a halt near where Illya sat, and then lowered itself to be mounted. Illya was dragged to his feet and virtually hoisted astride the camel’s back. Nasir then sat behind him and ordered the beast to stand. Obediently, the camel unfurled its legs and stood with jerky, awkward motions. They rode off in silence._

_By the time the sun had risen to it’s early morning height, the Master and slave reached their destination. As they neared the bazaar, he had no idea of what fate had in store. The camel was halted in a parking area and secured to a hitching post with several other beasts who shuffled their hooves and kicked the ground restlessly. The stench of urine and feces was strong._

_They dismounted. Nasir pinned Illya against the side of his camel, holding him upright by the collar of his tunic. His look was threatening._

_"I’ve had it with you! You’re a worthless piece of shit, " he started with a quiet, menacing voice. "Let’s just hope someone buys you, because if I have to take you back with me, you’re going to regret every moment of your sorry life. Do I make myself clear? " His grip on the collar tightened for emphasis._

_Illya was unable to speak, trembling in pain and fear. He managed to nod slightly._

_Nasir released the collar and tied Illya’s wrists with rope, ordering him to walk._

_The slave had no idea where they were going, or how far he would need to walk. Placing weight on his leg was unbearable, but he forced himself to walk with some semblance of normalcy. Luckily, it was only a short distance to the auction arena. Illya saw other men and women with wrists tied, some with ankles tied as well. He briefly eyed them...they all looked more robust than he. Anxiety began to gnaw at him. What if he failed and had to return with Nasir._

_A large bearded man took him from Nasir and instructed him to wait with the other bound slaves. Nasir and the bearded man spoke briefly, Nasir nodded in agreement, and walked away. Illya saw that several of the slaves were seated in the raised arena, so he followed suit. Prospective buyers walked over to the bound individuals, getting a closer look, often moving away to another possibility. No one approached him. Illya closed his eyes, trying to remain calm._

_"Illya? " a voice asked._

_The slave didn’t hear the dark haired man speaking his name and kept his eyes closed._

"Illya," he repeated. "Illya, wake up!"

The blue eyes opened wildly, darting back and forth between the two men hovering over him. One reached out to touch his shoulder. To avoid the touch, Illya deftly moved away and slid off the bed. The two men were now trying to surround him, corral him. They were speaking, but in his confusion their words were garbled and meaningless.

The taller, slimmer man maneuvered over the bed to his right while the burlier man moved in to his left. Illya tried making a quick move away from them both, but they were faster and within seconds the taller man had a hold on him. In a flash, Illya wriggled out of his grasp and ran through the door. The two men followed.

He moved into the middle of the living room and stopped. Catching his breath, he looked around, recognizing the surroundings. Yossi and Napoleon slowly came closer, afraid to startle him again. They were relieved when Illya turned towards them and nodded in recognition.

Wearily, Illya sat on the couch and buried his head in his hands, trying to block out the images that torture him each night. He shook his head. "The dreams won’t go away. I just want then to go away," he said softly.

Yossi sat next to him, placing a hand on Illya’s head. "Do you want to talk about them?"

Illya nodded, finally ready to let go.

* * * * *

They talked until after seven in the morning. It was difficult for Illya to talk, but once he began, the words and feelings flowed freely. Illya talked about his enslavement with Nasir, the nightmares and even his fears about Napoleon. Several bowls of ice cream were consumed in the process. When he finished, Illya felt like a weight had been lifted from his chest. Yossi gave him a hug and explained that in his "professional medical opinion" the nightmares should eventually decrease.

Before leaving, Yossi called his wife. They spoke in Hebrew, and from the sound of it, the doctor was extremely apologetic, then spoke softly with his hand cupped over the receiver. Napoleon and Illya both tried not to be intrusive.

Illya chuckled once Yossi left.

"What was he saying?" Napoleon asked.

"He told his wife that he was going to make it up to her the moment he got home."

* * * * *

Dr. Vicktor Schwenk had been UNCLE’s chief behavioral specialist for approximately fifteen years, travelling to various offices as the need arose. A man of average height and less than average weight, with long spindly fingers and thick glasses, Victor looked like the quintessential mad scientist. Considered brilliant by some, others were turned off by self-righteous autonomy and inability to be a team player. Neither Napoleon nor Yossi were fans of the good doctor. But he was considered one of the best in his field, so Mr. Waverly requested he look in on Illya upon returning from his vacation.

The entrance to his office was a few doors away from the infirmary. He kept it locked and requested that no one have access to it unless he was present, under the pretense of security.

Napoleon and Illya met Dr. Schwenk at his office. Illya was ushered in and Napoleon was abruptly asked to leave.

"He will probably feel more at ease to talk to me if you aren’t here," Dr. Schwenk explained.

Napoleon looked over to Illya, who was standing a few feet away, stiff and distressed.

"I’d like to stay for a short while," Napoleon countered.

"No. We’ll be about an hour." With that, Dr. Schwenk guided Napoleon out the door and closed it behind him.

He then turned his attentions to Illya, whose anxiety level had risen within the last few moments. Dr. Schwenk made him extremely uncomfortable, something he had not felt with other employees of UNCLE.

"Please, Illya...have a seat," Dr. Schwenk offered.

Illya looked around and reluctantly sat down.

"Can I get you something to drink? Coffee? Tea?"

"No...thank you," Illya answered slowly.

A knock on the door broke through the tension in the room. Dr. Schwenk pressed a button on his desk, and the door opened. Dr. Ari Finklestein came in, placing a note on the doctor’s desk. Vicktor read it, and nodded in agreement.

"Tell your uncle I’ll see him this evening."

"Very good, Dr. Schwenk."

Ari left the room and the doctor once again turned his attentions to Illya.

"I’ve been reading your file..."

 _File?_ Illya thought, a little upset at the thought that this man was reading about him...his injuries, recovery, things he said to whoever wrote them down.

"...and it seems like you’ve been through a lot lately. How are you feeling now?"

Illya did not want to answer. Being in this man’s company was unpleasant. Although neither Napoleon nor Yossi expressed their feelings about Dr. Schwenk with Illya, he seemed to have come to the same conclusion about the man...he simply didn’t like him.

"I asked you how you’re feeling. Give me an answer, please."

"Much better," he unwillingly responded.

"Hmmm, your aptitude for learning is quite high," he continued with the file. "According to this, you’ve learned to read and write. All this from an ignorant slave?"

Illya looked down. "I guess I’m not that ignorant, am I?"

"From the start, you were able to speak English to your new master. I would have thought that you could speak only Arabic. Where did you learn English?"

Illya shrugged.

Dr. Schwenk put down the file and stood up, moving closer to Illya.

"It appears you were battered pretty badly. I’d like to take a look at you. Please remove your shirt."

Illya shook his head ’no’.

"Are you ashamed of your appearance?"

"No."

"What’s the problem, then?"

"I don’t...I don’t want to."

"This is part of my examination with you. Please remove your shirt."

After a few seconds of deafening silence, Illya obediently unbuttoned his shirt and slipped it off his shoulders. Dr. Schwenk examined the wounds.

"They seem to be healing nicely. How did you get them?"

A lump formed in Illya’s throat.

"Illya, how did you get them?" Dr. Schwenk repeated.

Another moment of silence.

"My master beat me," Illya replied, beads of sweat forming on his forehead.

Schwenk's eyebrows raised. "Napoleon Solo did this to you?"

Illya shook his head. "No. Nasir."

"Your file also states that you have a leg wound. I’d like to see that, too."

Illya refused, but after pressing the issue, he relented and tried rolling up his pantleg to reveal the injury. The slim cut of his trousers prevented the pantleg from rolling above the knee. Dr. Schwenk insisted that Illya remove his pants.

"If you have all my information in that file, why can’t you simply read Dr. Shapiro’s notes?" Illya asked curtly.

"Well, well, well...I see you’ve begun expressing yourself. When did that begin?"

No answer.

"I need to make my own assessment. Now please let me take a look at your leg."

Once again, Illya relented and withdrew his injured leg from his trousers.

Dr. Schwenk poked and prodded at the healing wound.

"Any discomfort?"

"No," Illya lied.

Dr. Schwenk made a few notes in the file, then told Illya he could put his clothes back on.

"What do you think of your new master?"

"He’s been very kind to me," Illya replied, wondering why Dr. Schwenk kept referring to Napoleon as his "master."

"Oh yes, how?"

Illya went on, with difficulty, to explain his relationship with Napoleon and how it differed from his previous one with Nasir. Dr. Schwenk took notes as he spoke, causing Illya to guard his words as much as possible.

"I see you’re still having nightmares, Illya," Dr. Schwenk continued.

Illya froze. There was no information about his talk with Napoleon and Yossi in the file. He felt relieved.

"What are they about?"

No answer.

"You realize, of course, that you’re simple impeding your therapy by not answering. Now tell me, what are they about?"

Another moment of silence.

"I...I forget them once I wake up."

"Oh, come on, really now...do you expect me to believe that?"

Illya nodded.

"Napoleon and Dr. Shapiro may buy that heap of crap, but I don’t. I’m sure you do remember, but prefer not to talk about it."

"I can’t remember what they’re about," Illya insisted.

Dr. Schwenk rose up and walked over to a medical cabinet on the far wall. He unlocked and opened the center drawer, bringing out a syringe and a vial of amber liquid. Illya watched in horror as the doctor filled the syringe half way with the fluid. By the time the doctor turned around, Illya was out of his seat and backing away towards the door.

"Relax, Illya, relax," he said, drawing nearer.

"G-g-g-go away."

"This is just a little something to calm you down...open up your mind a bit."

"No!"

Undaunted by the refusals, Dr. Schwenk walked over to Illya, syringe in hand. When he was about to grasp Illya’s arm, the blond agent forcefully pushed him aside. In an instant, Illya rushed over to the doctor’s desk, quickly pushing the door’s release button. As soon as the door slid open, Illya ran through, escaping into the hallway.

He ran down the corridor, past Yossi’s opened office door.

"Whoa, little buddy! What’s the rush?"

Illya barely heard him and kept on down the hallway, passing several agents en route. He never looked back to see if Dr. Schwenk was in pursuit. As he was about to turn a corner, he literally ran into Napoleon.

"What’s wrong, Illya? Where’s the fire?" Napoleon attempted to physically stop his friend.

Illya shook his blond head and tried to avert Napoleon’s grasp.

"What happened?" Napoleon asked, trying to physically restrain Illya.

Illya wordlessly wrenched free of Napoleon’s grip and continued running down the corridor. Yossi met up with Napoleon as the blond agent slipped away, turning another corridor.

"What do you think that was all about?" Yossi asked.

"I guess he dislikes Schwenk as much as we do," Napoleon chuckled. "Well, Illya can definitely take care of himself at this point. I’ll leave him alone for a while. Maybe he needs to sort things out for himself."

As they turned around, they saw Vicktor Schwenk walking in their direction. He appeared unfazed.

"So what happened, Vicktor?" Napoleon asked. "Illya seemed to have a rather extreme reaction to your therapy session."

"He had difficulty dealing with my questions. I feel they cut too close to the quick...too many bad memories. He still refuses to talk about his nightmares, doesn’t he?"

"Uh-huh," Napoleon lied. He and Yossi knew practically everything about the nature of the nightmares, but they declined documenting them in Illya’s regular medical file. Yossi secretly kept an additional file of information he felt UNCLE did not need to know at the moment.

Neither Napoleon nor Yossi followed Illya. Had they known what transpired with Dr. Schwenk, they would have intervened. They were satisfied with his conclusion that Illya was having difficulty dealing with horrific memories recently stirred up.

Several hours later, Napoleon did become concerned. He had not heard from Illya, nor had anyone else. Solo returned to the apartment. It appeared vacant. The senior agent stood silently inside the living room after entering, listening intently. Silence. He checked the kitchen and bathroom...vacant. Next he entered the bedroom, but before turning on the light, he heard uneven breathing coming from the side of the room with Illya’s bed. He called his friend’s name...no answer...but more gulps of breath.

Rather than open the light, Solo opened the door wider, allowing a gentle stream of light to enter the bedroom, slightly illuminating the huddled figure on the bed. Napoleon walked over to him, noticing that Illya was sitting upright against the headboard with his knees drawn tightly to his chest, staring straight ahead into nothingness. Napoleon wasn’t even sure his friend was aware of his presence.

Solo sat down next to him, feeling the movement of the mattress as Illya shook.

"Illya, what’s wrong?" he asked quietly.

No answer. Napoleon moved a little closer, placing a hand on Illya’s forehead to see if he was feverish. The only response he received was Illya closing his eyes and moving his head away from the touch.

"What did Dr. Schwenk say to you?"

More silence, but the labored breathing increased. Napoleon noticed that Illya’s shirt was buttoned unevenly, as if he had dressed in haste.

"Did you take off your clothes?" Solo asked.

A slight response...Illya shot a glance towards Napoleon, then once more stared off into space.

"That’s not unusual for a doctor, Illya. I’m sure he wanted to see what happened to you with his own eyes."

It took a moment, but Illya finally swallowed what Napoleon assumed was a lump in his throat, and looked down. He shook his head "no."

"What else did he say?" Solo continued.

No answer.

"Did he have your file?"

Illya nodded slowly.

"What did he say about it?"

After several more labored breaths, Illya found it possible to answer. "He read everything you and Dr. Shapiro put in it out loud...to me. Then he started talking about my nightmares..." The voice trailed off.

"What about them?"

"He wanted to know what I dreamt. It wasn’t in the file." Illya looked up. "Thank you."

"You’re welcome...Why?"

"It’s none of his concern."

"Actually, Illya, it is. His job is to help you come to terms with what happened."

"I can ’come to terms’, as you say, without him," Illya snapped sarcastically. He reddened slightly, then continued. "I didn’t like being locked in a room with him. He makes me very uncomfortable."

"Locked in a room?" Napoleon queried.

"Yes. The only way the door would open is if he pressed the buzzer on his desk."

"Anything else make you so uncomfortable...other than the locked door?"

Illya paused. "He took out a syringe and wanted to inject me with something."

Solo’s eyebrows raised. "What did he say it was?"

"Something to relax me so I would talk to him." Illya closed his eyes, envisioning the amber serum once more, shuddering.

"Once again, that may not be unusual for his therapy. You finally accepted it when Yossi would give you injections. Why is it so different with Dr. Schwenk?"

Illya merely shrugged, and shook his head, not having an answer for Napoleon.

"And..." Illya started softly, "he kept referring to you as my ’master’. Even I’ve stopped doing that." He paused a moment. "I really don’t want to meet with him again."

"I’ll see what I can do."

* * * * *

"Well, Mr. Solo, if that’s how Mr. Kuryakin feels, I’ll inform Dr. Schwenk to plan no more sessions with him," Mr. Waverly said via the monitor. "Did Illya say why he refuses to see Vicktor?"

"In all honesty, Sir, Dr. Schwenk did and said a few unprofessional things which made him extremely uncomfortable."

"Did your attitude towards Vicktor have anything to do with Illya’s reaction?"

"Not at all, Mr. Waverly. I was careful not to let him know how I feel. Illya’s reaction was totally independent of my dislike for the man."

"Very well, then." Mr. Waverly puffed on his pipe. "How is Illya doing?"

"Actually, quite well. I’d like him to come back to New York with me next week."

"Are things beginning to jog his memory?"

"I don’t know if ’jog’ is the right word. He hasn’t had any epiphanies. But some of the similarities are frightening. Deep inside, he’s still Illya."

"Hmmm, maybe coming to New York would help. He may eventually give us more insights about who actually planned the abduction and where he was taken to." Mr. Waverly paused, tamping down his pipe tobacco. "I have a short assignment for you while you’re still there. Our intelligence office recently received information about Thrush’s satrap. Their sources say it is about ten miles from our headquarters. I would like you to look into it. You may have to take a few days and live in the desert...and please, Mr. Solo, try to be careful. I would hate to lose two of my best agents."

"Technically, Sir, you haven’t even lost one of us."

"Unfortunately, you may be wrong. Don’t lose your objectivity about Illya. He may be alive and well, but for UNCLE’s purposes, he is still ’lost’."

* * * * *

Napoleon informed Illya that he would be away for a few days.

"Where will you be going?" Illya asked.

"Mr. Waverly needs me to look into something, so I have to go to work."

"If you don’t mind me asking, what exactly do you do?"

Napoleon paused. He anticipated this question arising eventually. "Well, I work for UNCLE...and before you say it...it’s not ’Uncle’ Waverly."

The senior agent briefly explained that UNCLE was an international law enforcement organization, and that he was an agent who did his best to keep the world safe. He did not, however, tell Illya that they were partners and had a long history together, both as friends and co-workers. That would come later.

"So basically, you are like the police," Illya surmised.

"Yes, but I work all over the world, not just in one place."

"...and you live in New York?"

"That’s where my apartment is. I’m going home next week. Have you thought more about joining me?"

Illya smiled. "I’d like to go."

"Wonderful. For now, I’m going to pack a few things and I’m off to the desert."

"The desert?"

"Yes...searching for some bad guys," Napoleon smiled.

"Would you like company?"

Napoleon didn’t know how if he had the authority to take Illya with him. This was an unusual situation. In the past, he often passed assignments over to Illya, but under these present circumstances, it might put both him and Illya at risk if he came.

"Let me think about it."

After a brief discussion with Yossi, he felt Illya would be fine going along. This was only a routine surveillance mission to gain information. Any action would be taken later. Illya was briefed about his "mission" and given a communicator in case he needed to contact either Napoleon or headquarters. The two men got in a jeep and headed off into the desert.

Several miles from headquarters, UNCLE had their tent set up, complete with a well fed and watered camel. Napoleon and Illya brought enough food to last the few days they intended to stay. Everything else they needed was already in the tent.

Napoleon observed Illya’s reaction carefully. The last time he had been in a tent was not particularly pleasant, but that seemed to be in the past. Illya was quite comfortable with his accoutrements and felt very much at home.

Their afternoon and evening was uneventful. Solo kept watch for people who passed within sight of his field glasses. Not a soul went by. Maybe intelligence was incorrect. This was supposedly a high traffic area for Thrushies.

Solo and Illya dressed in Bedouin fashion. Camping out incognito, any passing enemy agents should simply assume they were nomads. After the sun set, they ate their dinner and went to sleep.

"Exciting work, isn’t it Illya?" Napoleon asked jokingly.

"Yes. This is what you do all the time?"

"Well, not exactly. Just once in a while. Generally, I see a little more action.”

* * * * *

"Solo here," he answered sleepily.

"Good morning, Mr. Solo. I trust that you and Illya are settled in?"

"Yes Sir. It's..." Napoleon squinted, aiming a flashlight at his watch, "...a little after 3 am."

"Sorry to wake you, but Intelligence has pinpointed a more precise location. It’s about two miles north of where you are."

Mr. Waverly gave him the information he needed to scout out the new location, and recommended he leave immediately under the blanket of darkness. By now, Illya was awake, listening to the conversation. When Napoleon concluded talking with his superior, he told Illya that he was leaving for a short while...alone...and he should be back by mid morning.

After packing water and a little food on the camel, Napoleon headed off. Illya found it difficult falling back to sleep. Something didn’t sit well. Fatigue finally won and he dozed off once more.

_Cold steel tables loomed into view. Bright overhead lights. Medical equipment stood around. Monitors. IV tubes._

Illya woke up in a cold sweat. This was the first time in days dreams haunted him. He tried to figure out where he remembered them from. His previous nightmares were concrete. They centered around Nasir. These images only conjured up memories of what he perceived to be his medical treatment at UNCLE. He fell back to sleep.

_Someone was lying on the table. Cold. Naked. In restraints. An IV needle pierced his arm. He couldn’t pull away._

Breathing was difficult. Illya woke gasping for breath. He looked around. It was dark out. Napoleon was still gone. Was he that afraid of being alone? He shrugged off the fear as best he could, and managed to fall asleep once more.

_He was the person. Illya. Face down, unable to move, unable to get away. Bound to the table by his hands and feet. It was cold. He shivered, desperately wanting a blanket. His stomach burned. Hunger. The muscles ached, the skin down the back of his body was sore. A voice broke the silence. A familiar voice._

_"Are you ready yet?"_

Illya could no longer lie down. The dreams haunted him again and there was no escape. He got up and ate breakfast, watching the sun rise over the sand dunes.

He activated his communicator, trying to contact Napoleon. No response. He then placed a call to Mr. Waverly.

"Yes Illya. What is it?" Mr. Waverly asked.

"Have you heard from Napoleon?"

"Why, no. He should be on his way back by now."

"I tried contacting him, but he doesn’t respond."

"Let me try tracking him," the Old Man offered. Several seconds passed in silence as Mr. Waverly checked UNCLE’s tracking system. "Well, he’s on the move. About five miles away. He should be back shortly."

"Thank you, Sir," Illya said, closing the communicator.


	5. Chapter 5

Illya was still uncomfortable with the situation. He put on his burnoose and dark glasses and ran to the jeep. Thankfully, Napoleon left the keys in the ignition. Illya got behind the wheel and started the engine. He looked at the gears to his right, and the three pedals on the floor. Momentarily, he closed his eyes, mentally reviewing how he observed Napoleon drive. Within seconds, the car was in motion. Illya brought down the tracking screen and honed on to Napoleon’s signal. It wasn’t moving towards him, as it should. Instead, the signal moved south and slightly east. Napoleon would not take such a route. It was also moving at a faster clip than a camel could run.

Moments later the signal on his screen turned into another jeep within his view. Illya steered his vehicle so that eventually he would end up in their path. Before they got too close, he grabbed a map and stood up, waving frantically at the driver and his passenger.

As they approached, he told them he was lost. He walked over to them with his map and showed them his proposed destination. The driver looked over his shoulder and scratched his head. This destination was several kilometers northeast of where they stood. Illya bowed slightly and thanked them.

Napoleon was not in the jeep. He discretely checked while getting directions. He did notice a belt and sandals on the back seat - Napoleon’s, which housed his tracking devices, along with a coil of rope.

Once their jeep was out of sight, Illya followed their tire tracks until he saw what looked like the inert body of a man lying in the sand.

He rode up to the body and stopped the jeep alongside it. Napoleon was lying still...too still. Illya knelt down and touched him.

Napoleon’s brown eyes opened. They blinked in disbelief, not knowing whether he was really looking at Illya or an imaginary spector.

Not a muscle moved on Napoleon. The stillness was disconcerting. Breaths came short huffs, only through the nose. He was unable to open his mouth, unable to speak, unable to move at all.

Illya lifted Solo’s head and placed it on his lap, tilting the head forward so the nape of his neck was exposed. There it was...one single needle mark. Illya returned the head to a more comfortable position.

"Napoleon, listen to me. I’m going to ask you a few questions. If the answer is ’Yes’, blink once. Blink twice for ’No’. All right?"

One blink.

"Good. After you were injected, were you able to move at all?"

One blink.

"OK. That’s good. Are you having trouble breathing?"

One blink.

"Is it hard to swallow?"

One blink again.

"Are you in pain?"

Three blinks. Three?

"Does that mean ’A Little’?"

One blink.

"You were given a paralysis drug. As long as you were able to move immediately after the injection, they didn’t damage your spinal cord. It also looks like you’ve been overdosed." Illya spoke while gently rolling up Napoleon’s shirt, exposing rope burns around his chest and upper arms. He picked up Solo’s limp hands and saw more rope burns in the palms. "The good part," he continued, looking directly into Napoleon’s eyes, "is that the drug leaves your system in about 14 hours. You should be fine after that. For now, let’s get you out of here."

Illya squatted behind Napoleon and brought him to a sitting position. He placed his arms under Solo’s arm pits and around his chest, and slowly straightened his own legs until he stood, carrying the entire weight of his limp friend. Lifting him into the jeep was difficult. Napoleon outweighed him by more than 30 pounds, but adrenaline does strange things, and Illya managed to place him into the rear seat of the jeep with relative ease.

He laid the inert agent on his side, making sure his mouth was open. After all this, the last thing he wanted was for Napoleon to drown on his own saliva. He fastened the seat belts around Solo’s body the best he could, hoping they would secure him until they reached UNCLE.

After starting the engine, Illya programmed the tracking system to guide them to UNCLE, then he called ahead to inform Dr. Shapiro he was on his way, with a very disabled Napoleon on board.

Dr. Shapiro met them at the vehicle entrance like before. He brought a gurney and oxygen at Illya’s request.

"How the hell did you find him?" Yossi asked as he and his team removed Napoleon from the back of the jeep. They placed the limp agent on the gurney and Yossi began doing a cursory examination.

Illya quickly explained.

Napoleon breathing became more distressed. Illya turned Solo on his side slightly, laying his cheek on the mattress and opening his mouth. He then exposed the nape of Napoleon’s neck, showing the doctor the single needle mark.

"He was given a paralysis drug, and overdosed." Illya told the doctor. "He can’t swallow very well and I assume the muscles in his chest are not working to capacity."

Yossi shot him a glance, raising his eyebrows in surprise. "And how do you know all this?" he asked as he placed an oxygen mask over Napoleon’s nose and mouth.

Illya shrugged. "He should be able to move a little bit by this evening." Illya placed a hand on Napoleon’s shoulder. "He also has rope burns around his chest and wrists. I think he may have been dragged a distance."

The doctor finished his exam. He gave Napoleon a few comforting words then straightened up, smiling. He began rolling the gurney into the infirmary.

"Well, you’re definitely on target, Illya." They moved quickly to the infirmary. "...and how did you learn to drive?" Yossi asked, breaking the short silence.

Illya smiled. "I watched him."

The sounds in the hospital room fascinated Illya. Napoleon was hooked up to equipment to monitor his heart rate, and each beat created a soft ’beep’ with each corresponding peak on the screen. The oxygen hissed and the suction to remove unswallowed saliva gurgled. An IV line hydrated him while a catheter removed urine. 

Napoleon was totally powerless, unable to move or communicate except for blinking. He was positioned slightly elevated to one side, his head turned so his cheek still lay on an unpillowed mattress. The suction tube was taped to his cheek, and his mouth taped shut. A intense fear gnawed within. What if Illya was wrong. What if he could never move again. How did Illya know all this anyway?

Illya never left his side, reassuring him that he would regain movement.

"The best thing you can do for yourself now is sleep," Illya spoke gently, brushing the hair out his face. "I know how frightening this is, but fighting to stay awake won’t help. In your condition, Yossi can’t even sedate you. You have to calm down on your own and try to sleep."

The brown eyes reluctantly closed. Illya sat next to him, massaging Napoleon’s temples like Mara did when he was unable to sleep. Solo’s labored breathing steadied a bit, and the blips on the heart monitor slowed to a steady rhythm as Solo finally dozed.

* * * * *

Mr. Waverly appeared on the monitor.

"Your actions are quite commendable, young man," Waverly said, wearing a rare smile. He, too, was amazed at Illya’s capabilities under extreme conditions.

"Thank you, SIr. I have a question. Who gave you get the information about where Napoleon was supposed to go?"

Mr. Waverly was reluctant to discuss Intelligence procedures with Illya at this point, so he kept his response general. "We have people trained to uncover such information. These people work from tips they receive from others in the field."

"Oh..." Illya looked away, thinking. "Who have they talked to?"

"I’m not at liberty to divulge that, Illya. Why do you ask?"

"Well, the location of the village you mentioned is not where you sent Napoleon. That village was to the south, not the north. I finally realized that this morning. Something’s wrong. I think he may have been set up."

Mr. Waverly chewed on his pipe. "Let me look into that."

* * * * *

Illya returned to the hospital room. Napoleon was still sleeping comfortably. He looked up at the security monitor. The red light was illuminated. Obviously, Yossi was watching from his office. The blond agent sat in the large chair, placing his feet on the mattress beside his friend. Exhausted, he closed his eyes and allowed the soft rhythmic sounds in the room lull him to sleep.

_He was still face down, unable to move, unable to get away, still cold and very hungry. His muscles and back continued to ache._

_The familiar voice again asked, "Are you ready yet?"_

_The shivers were practically convulsions now. The bound man turned his head toward his captor and hesitantly nodded in agreement, eyes cast downward in humiliation._

_"Are you certain? We can continue your treatment as long as we need."_

_Desperate, unable to withstand any more torture, he succumbed. He looked up into his captor’s eyes. Vicktor Schwenk stood before him, filling a syringe from a vial of amber serum._

Illya’s eyes opened wide, startled. Dr. Schwenk. Amber liquid. He tried muddling through the fogginess which clouded his thinking. Blinking a few times to clear the cobwebs, he began mentally reconstructing the scenarios of his recent dreams with the events in his current reality. 

Napoleon stirred slightly, catching Illya’s full attention. The blond agent looked up at the clock. 7:36 pm. On time.

Solo’s head turned a bit, shoulders shifted trying to find a more comfortable position. Fingers flexed slightly. Knees bent, legs moved a bit. Illya smiled.

"Napoleon...Napoleon," he said quietly, shaking Solo’s shoulders to rouse him.

The brown eyes opened slightly, still heavy with sleep.

"Napoleon, you’re beginning to move."

The brown eyes opened wider as his head instinctively turned toward Illya. He tried to speak, but the tape prevented words from forming, creating muffled sounds.

"Can you swallow yet?"

Illya watched as Napoleon effortlessly swallowed. He pressed the ’call button’ and looked into the security camera.

"Napoleon’s able to move a little. He can swallow. I’m going to remove the tape and suction."

"Whoa, Illya," Yossi’s voice boomed from the speaker. "That’s my job. Don’t steal my thunder. I’ll be right down."

Within seconds, the doctor appeared. Yossi asked Napoleon a few questions, requested he do a few simple functions, and when he was sure the senior agent was able to breath and swallow on his own, removed the tape and suction tube.

"How do you feel?" he asked.

Solo rolled his tongue around the inside of his mouth, making a face at the unpleasant taste and feeling. "Very weak," he finally answered, his voice raspy from the dry stickiness in his mouth, "...but thrilled I’m functioning."

Yossi raised the head of the hospital bed and offered Napoleon a cup of water to clear out his palette. Solo took the cup in a shaky hand, slowly raising it to his mouth. A little dripped on the sheets as he tried to take a sip. The doctor assisted him a bit, tilting the cup so some of the liquid would make it into his mouth. Napoleon swished it around a bit, then spit the remainder out into a container Yossi held for him.

"More?" Yossi asked.

Napoleon shook his head, closing his eyes, still fatigued.

"Are you hungry or thirsty?"

"No," he answered weakly, smiling just a little. He took in a deep breathed, allowing it to slowly leave his lungs as he exhaled. "I just need sleep."

"What happened to you?" Dr. Shapiro asked.

"I’m not quite sure. It’s still a little fuzzy," Napoleon started slowly. He was still finding it difficult to talk. "I remember traveling to the area Mr. Waverly requested. I was alone. All of a sudden, several jeeps surrounded me. One of them came up from behind and threw a lasso around me. They drove away, dragging me with them." Solo stopped for a moment, trying to organize his thoughts. "When they finally stopped, they overpowered me and injected something in the back of my neck. I could only walk a few steps before my arms and legs gave out."

"Did they say anything?" Illya asked.

"Nothing at all. No boasting. Not like Thrush."

"What happened next?" Dr. Shapiro asked.

"They took my sandals and belt...and somehow they knew I had a back-up tracking device hidden in a false crown. Not too many people know about that one." 

"Well, you’re recovering nicely, but you need your rest. I’m going to leave the IV in your arm and the catheter in your...well, you know where. I’d like you to keep on the oxygen mask and the leads to the heart monitor for a while. You’re not out of the woods yet." Yossi turned to his left, placing a strong arm around Illya. "Luckily you decided to take him along with you, otherwise you’d probably be dead meat by now."

The doctor left. Napoleon settled back into bed, lying flat on the mattress.

"I guess you can use this now," Illya said, placing a pillow under his head. "Try getting more sleep. You’re going to be weak for a while, maybe even tomorrow. Don’t fight it."

Solo nodded and closed his eyes. "You were a sight for sore eyes," he said quietly. Soon, the sounds of the medical equipment in the room indicated that he had fallen asleep.

* * * * *

Illya could not relax as easily as Napoleon. His mind raced with the images of his dreams and the implications of Schwenk being involved with anti-UNCLE actions. He was unable to solidify his thoughts, so he kept rerunning the scenarios repeatedly.

He got up and returned to the communications room, contacting Mr. Waverly again.

"Good evening, Illya," the older man greeted solemnly.

"Good evening, Sir," he returned. "Have you found out any more about where Napoleon’s information came from?"

"No. Unfortunately, I’m hitting dead ends. Why are you pursuing this?"

"I still think he was lured into a trap."

"And who do you think set this trap?"

Illya didn’t answer at first, unsure what to say.

"Well, speak up, Illya. I haven’t got all day." Mr. Waverly was becoming impatient.

"I...I think...Dr. Schwenk may be involved."

Silence. Mr. Waverly hesitated to respond. "And what makes you say that?" he finally asked.

"I can’t put ...uh...my finger in it."

"ON it," Mr. Waverly corrected.

"Thank you, ’on’ it. I have these dreams...nightmares...I finally saw him."

"In your dreams?"

"Yes. Little by little. He held me captive in a cold room. I finally saw his face."

More silence on the monitor. What Mr. Waverly didn’t tell Illya was that their leads all aimed towards Vicktor Schwenk, and he felt it was inappropriate to say so at this time.

"Thank you for filling me in, Illya. We’ll look into it."

"Your welcome, Sir. Oh...can I ask you a question?"

"Yes."

"Do you ever sleep?"

Mr. Waverly sighed and smiled ever so slightly. "Once in while."

* * * * *

Hunger pangs reminded Illya that he hadn’t eaten since breakfast. He picked up a tray of food from the commissary and brought it to the hospital room. Napoleon was sleeping soundly when he arrived, the monitors beeping softly with his slow, steady heartbeat. The oxygen mask was lying beside him on the pillow. Illya placed it back over Solo’s nose and mouth, but moments later, an impatient hand unconsciously pushed it off again.

Dinner consisted of barley soup, salad, two slices of pita bread stuffed with lamb and vegetables, and a giant bowl of ice cream to top it off. He enjoyed all the food, but savored the ice cream. After putting the tray aside, he sat back, lazily watching the IV drops rhythmically dripping before entering the long, narrow tube.

 _Miraculous invention,_ he thought. _All the medications go right into his veins..._ _Right into his veins?_ Illya bolted up, looking around frantically. _What if Vicktor Schwenk was involved? Wouldn’t he try to take Napoleon’s life again? What would be the best way to do that? Injecting something right into the IV line. No one would know...no one...unless..._

Illya looked at the security camera. The red light was off. He searched for paper, cardboard, something to cover up the red light in case it was activated. The box top flap from a box of Band Aids caught his attention. Illya tore off a piece, then climbed on a chair with a bit of adhesive tape and the cardboard and placed a shield over the red light.

Illya stepped off the chair, dimmed the lights and activated the camera. No red light showed. Dr. Shapiro’s voice came over the speaker.

"Is everything all right?" he asked.

"Yes - I’m just checking the camera. Sorry to interrupt. Don’t mind me," Illya apologized.

"All right. Let me know if you need anything."

Illya shut the camera off, then walked over to Napoleon’s left arm. He wanted to remove the IV lead next. Although he tried to take off the tape gently as possible, Napoleon still woke, instinctively pulling his arm out of Illya’s grasp.

"What are you doing?" Solo asked sleepily.

"I want to take the IV needle out of your arm."

"Why?"

"I think we have a problem. I feel you were lured into a trap this morning, and Dr. Schwenk may be involved," Illya explained. He went on to tell Napoleon about his dreams, and the his conversation with Mr. Waverly...how the old man hesitated when presented with the deception.

"What do you want to do?" Napoleon asked.

"I think Schwenk may try to kill you again. What easier way than to inject something deadly into your IV? Trust me, OK?"

Napoleon sighed. Why not trust him. Despite his current shortcomings, he hasn’t been wrong yet. Illya continued removing the tape and started withdrawing the IV lead.

"Uh...wait a minute, Illya..." Napoleon started pulling his arm away. "...do you know what you’re doing? I don’t want to bleed to death."

"Don’t worry," Illya assured, smiling a bit. "I watched Yossi remove mine."

Illya continued removing the IV line, pressing gauze over the puncture with firm pressure while raising the arm to reduce the flow. The IV solution kept dripping from the line. With his free hand, he aimed its flow into a plastic urinal which hung on side of the bed.

After a few minutes, when he was satisfied that the bleeding was under control, Illya placed adhesive tape over the gauze.

"Good as new!" Illya beamed.

Illya found a pair of scissors cut the IV tubing in half, leaving the part still attached to the bag of fluid in the urinal. He then removed the slim flexible tube that just came out of Napoleon’s vein, leaving the shunt intact.

Moving around to Solo’s right arm, Illya placed the inoperative IV against the forearm, expertly taping it in place. He looped the tubing into a small ’figure 8’ and taped that to the forearm as well. The other end of the tube was raised almost to the height of the IV bag. Illya loosely knotted it as high as possible, hoping that in dimmed light, no one would notice the difference.

"That’s absolutely brilliant," Napoleon sighed, nodding his head.

Illya sat down on the bed. "Do you trust Yossi?"

"Completely!"

"Good. I’m going to inform him of what I’ve done. I’ll need his help. We’re going to set a trap of our own."

* * * * *

"You did _**what**_???" Yossi bellowed in the midst of Illya’s theory, jumping to his feet.

"I simply removed his IV line. I watched you do it to me."

"And just when did you get your medical degree?" The doctor was yelling, irate at Illya’s actions.

"Napoleon’s fine...."

"Let me be the judge of that!"

Yossi stormed out of his office, into Napoleon’s hospital room.

"You let him do this?" the doctor asked. "If you couldn’t stop him, you should have called me."

"What he says makes sense, Yossi," Napoleon said weariy. "And let’s face it, he hasn’t been wrong yet."

The doctor settled himself down and looked at Illya’s handiwork. Precise. Ingenious. It might work.

"At least you didn’t remove his catheter," Yossi sighed, removing it himself. "How would you like me to help?" he finally asked.

4 am. UNCLE’s activity slowed to a quiet lull. A skeleton force of agents remained, some finishing paperwork, others providing security or manning communications. Yossi busied himself with incomplete files, aware that Vicktor Schwenk was still in the building. Napoleon slept lightly, Illya feigned sleep.

Shortly after 4, the door to Solo’s hospital room opened, allowing a beam of light to enter from the hallway. A man entered. As the door closed, the shadowy slender figure stopped in the center of the room, allowing his eyes to adjust to the dim light. He looked up towards the security camera, pleased that the red light was off. The shadowy intruder walked towards Illya’s bed, satisfied that the soft, steady breaths indicated sleep. Illya coughed slightly, then returned to his breathing pattern. Finally, he walked over to Napoleon’s bed. He paused momentarily, checking the heart monitor.

Illya opened his eyes slightly, watching Vicktor’s actions the best he could. During his timely cough, he covertly turned on the power to the security camera. Yossi was watching the scene unfold from his office, focusing the camera on Schwenk to document any incriminating actions.

Once satisfied that he was safe, Dr. Schwenk removed a syringe from his pocket. Illya’s eyes strained to see what was inside, and he almost gasped when he noticed that the syringe was totally empty. Vicktor pushed the needle through the IV, then slowly, he depressed the plunger, assuming the deadly air would enter Napoleon’s veins.

Several seconds later, Napoleon’s body spasmed and he instinctively grabbed his chest, gasping for air. An alarm in the heart monitor sounded and the steady heartbeat rhythms flatlined. Almost instantly, Schwenk shut it off and turned his attentions to Illya.

Shaking him roughly, he ordered Illya to get up. Illya appeared slow to respond, angering VIcktor even more. A sharp slap on the face caused Illya’s eyes to open wide in affected disbelief.

"Rise and shine, Illya. You’re coming with me," Schwenk ordered.

"No," Illya protested quietly.

"I don’t believe there’s any room for discussion. My little experiment was flawed and I want to find why. I need you for that. Come on!" He grabbed Illya by the arm and turned to take him out of the room.

Illya struggled, unwilling to go. Why wasn’t security here yet? Vicktor kicked Illya’s feet from under him, forcing him face down on the bed and pinned one arm behind his back. Using his free hand, Schwenk produced a second syringe from his pocket. He used his teeth to remove the cap and leaned over to inject the milky white fluid into Illya’s biceps.

"I don’t think so!" a familiar voice threatened, pulling Dr. Schwenk off of Illya.

Vicktor turned around, stunned by the vision of Napoleon standing before him. At that moment, Yossi entered with several security agents, each grasping Vicktor’s arms and subduing him.

"Did you get it all on tape?" Illya asked.

"Every sordid second!" Yossi boasted.

"That’s impossible!" Vicktor Schwenk hissed. "The camera was off the entire time."

Yossi switched on the overhead lights. Schwenk looked up at the camera, seeing the cardboard shield over its red light. He then looked at Napoleon’s IV line, sighing as saw the rigged line emptying into the urinal. Finally, Solo dangled the end of the heart monitor’s lead, which he dramatically disengaged to simulate his death.

Dr. Schwenk’s jaw shifted. Illya moved towards him quickly, forcing his mouth open and placing the closest thing he could find...a roll of adhesive tape...inside.

The blond agent looked around, shrugging. "He has a cyanide capsule in a fake molar," he said innocently.

A look of surprise still clung to Vicktor’s face. Napoleon laughed, opening his hospital gown to remove the rest of the heart monitor leads. "Your ’Little Experiment’ devised this scenario entirely on his own." Solo then told the security guards to take him away.

* * * * *

Napoleon and Illya were packed and ready to leave for New York the following day. UNCLE’s interrogation team had already begun working on Vicktor Schwenk, making no headway at all. Deep inside, Solo wanted to try prying the information out of the turncoat himself, but Mr. Waverly had summoned him back to the States and it was in his best interest to finally follow orders.

"You’re going to need a different wardrobe in New York. It’s winter and a lot colder than you can imagine," Solo informed his friend as he laid out a selection of clothing for Illya to select. "Which ones would you like to wear today?"

Illya looked over the possibilities. Spread out before him were a gray suit with a white shirt and blue tie, chinos and a tweed sweater, black turtleneck sweater with black slacks, a herringbone sportscoat and brown trousers. He surveyed the selection several times, then chose the black turtleneck and slacks.

Napoleon smiled. _Somethings don’t change,_ he thought.

The remaining clothing was packed in a suitcase while Illya got dressed. He looked at himself curiously in the mirror when he was done.

"Well, it’s different than what I usually wear," he commented.

"You know, Illya," Solo began. "in the States, people have last names...their family names. Mine’s ’Solo’, Yossi’s is ’Shapiro’. You’ll need one too."

Illya looked up, shrugging. "I don’t have one."

"OK...we can give you one." Napoleon scratched his head, mocking deep thought. "Well, it could be something simple like ’Brown’ or ’Jones’..." a dramatic pause followed, "...or something more exotic. Like, let’s say...uh...’Kuryakin’. Hmmm, ’Kuryakin’. How does that sound to you?"

"’Kuryakin’?" Illya furrowed his brow, thinking it over. "’Illya Kuryakin’..." More silence as he reviewed the name several more times mentally. He looked up. "I like it!" he finally said.

* * * * *

The flight to New York was exciting for Illya. Napoleon gave him a window seat and with a childlike fascination, Illya kept his nose glued to the glass watching the take-off, landing, and much of the skyscape in-between. He even enjoyed the on-flight meals.

An UNCLE agent met them at their airport, handing them winter coats and escorting them back to the city. Illya looked like the quintessential tourist with his jaw dropped in utter awe as they drove through the streets of Manhattan.

"They’re really big," he finally said, eyes wide.

"I’ll show you around town later, Illya. But first, we have to go to headquarters. I’d like you to finally meet Mr. Waverly in person."

The door to Alexander Waverly’s office glided open. The Old Man found it all too familiar to see the duo entering together.

"Come in, Gentlemen," he said. "Take a seat."

 _Like nothing has changed,_ Napoleon thought as he and Illya sat.

"Welcome back, Mr. Solo. Good to see you, Mr...Kuryakin, isn’t it?"

Illya smiled and nodded.

"Did you have a good flight?" the UNCLE chief asked.

 _Enough of the small talk!_ Napoleon almost said.

"Yes, Sir," Napoleon responded. "Even traffic cooperated this afternoon."

Alexander Waverly opened the top file on his desk. He scanned it briefly. Napoleon knew his boss was just pausing to collect his thoughts. Mr. Waverly probably knew every word in that file verbatim.

He looked up. "It appears you’ve come a long way in the past few weeks, Mr. Kuryakin. Your health has improved tremendously..." a short pause to light a pipe, "and you’ve displayed exemplary insight, intelligence and bravery. You should be very pleased with your progress."

Illya nervously shuffled a bit. This man looked more intimidating in person than on a communication’s monitor.

"Thank you, Sir," he replied modestly.

"Illya, explain to me what made you suspect Dr. Schwenk."

"Well, Sir, he...he...I...was extremely uncomfortable when he met me. He scared me."

"You mentioned your dreams to me. He was in them?"

"Only the last one I had."

"Can you explain it to me?"

Illya looked at Napoleon for support, but the senior agent merely nodded his head, suggesting he continue talking to Mr. Waverly.

With difficulty finding the right words, Illya proceeded to explain the nature of his dreams, how images of deprivation and pain haunted his sleep and in the end, who was responsible for this. Alexander Waverly listened intently, taking in all the nuances of Illya’s description and making note of the blond agent’s mannerisms as he spoke.

"Can you remember where the dream took place?" Mr. Waverly asked.

"No, Sir."

"Any indication how many days you were there before you finally saw him?"

Illya shook his head ’no’.

"Do you remember him doing anything else to you?"

"No, Sir. I’m sorry I can’t be much help. It took a long time until I finally saw him in a dream. Before that, he was just a voice. Maybe more will come to me later."

"Nothing to be sorry about, young man. You’ve been a great help. I was in the process of building a case against Dr. Schwenk when you took the initiative. But in the future, Mr. Kuryakin, please clear your plans with Mr. Solo or me."

"I take responsibility for that, Sir," Napoleon chimed in. "I was there when he devised his plan. Illya wasn’t sure who he could trust. His plan was sound."

"Regardless, Mr. Solo, you know the protocol." Mr. Waverly spoke abruptly. "Besides, you weren’t in the greatest shape at the time to make such a decision. From what I gather, Dr. Shapiro was somewhat insensed as well."

"Yes," Napoleon defended, "and Yossi WAS in great shape at the time. He saw the merits of the plan and assisted us."

Mr. Waverly sighed. "Luckily, it all worked out in the end. But gentlemen, remember I don’t approve of mavericks." The chief turned towards Illya. "Keep that in mind in the future, Mr. Kuryakin."

Illya smiled and nodded in agreement, then he and Napoleon stood up to leave. The blond agent extended his hand to Mr. Waverly.

"Thank you for helping me," he started. "I don’t know what would have happened to me otherwise."

Mr. Waverly gracious accepted, then the two men turned to leave the room.

"Napoleon," Illya whispered as the door slid shut, "what’s a ’Maverick’?" 

* * * * *

Napoleon opened the door to his apartment, checked the security systems and looked around to make sure everything was in order. Illya followed, looking around in awe at the size of the rooms and how lavishly they were furnished. Like a child, he pressed his nose to the window, engrossed in the breathtaking panoramic cityscape outside. Every painting, every nick-nack, each and everything in the apartment piqued his interest. Illya walked around, studying, handling each item he saw. Solo walked Illya to the guest bedroom and showed him where to unpack.

As they were settling in, Napoleon discreetly placed a photo...one of his favorites...in his bureau drawer. Several years earlier, a colleague snapped a candid photo of him and Illya, guns drawn, responding to a security alarm inside headquarters. It turned out to be a false alarm, but the photo became a cherished memento of their work together.

Both men were exhausted. Jet lag was setting in. Napoleon felt it would be in their best interest to have a light dinner then call it an evening. He checked the contents of his refrigerator, already knowing that whatever was inside was either inedible or not components of a true meal. The freezer was next. No, he was too lazy to defrost something and cook. The bottle of vodka he kept stashed in the freezer caught his eye...symbolic of when Illya would stop over after work or on weekends. _I wonder if he still likes Vodka?_

Take-out was the only alternative.

"Do you like Chinese food?" Napoleon asked, reaching for a few take-out menus from local Chinese eateries which delivered.

"I don’t think I’ve even eaten that."

"Well, tonight will be your first voyage into the world of Chinese take-out."

Solo read off a few selections from the menu, all of which received the ever-popular Illya ’I don’t know’ shrug. After deciding that he should do the ordering, Napoleon phoned one of his favorite Chinese restaurants.

Within a half hour, a large brown paper shopping bag was brought to their door. The delivery man was paid and generously tipped, and Napoleon began unearthing the delectable Oriental treats. Hot and sour soup, Kung Pao Chicken, garlic spare ribs came out first, followed by the rest of their fare. The aromatic food roused Illya’s senses, and he came closer, looking into the Chinese food containers as Napoleon opened each one. The chef also included the usual accoutrements: chopsticks, soy and duck sauce, tea bags and fortune cookies.

Napoleon quickly set the table with plates, mugs and napkins. He made tea and brought that to the table as well, along with the icy bottle of vodka and two glasses.

They sat down. Illya looked bewildered at the lack of eating utensils. Solo smiled, showing him how to use chopsticks to serve food as well as eat it. After a little practice, Illya ate effortlessly.

"Well, what do you think?" Napoleon asked as Illya ate voraciously.

"Quite different than food I’ve eaten in Saudi Arabia," he mused. "It’s really very good...do they always bring it to your door?"

Solo poured tea into the mugs, followed by vodka into the glasses.

"This isn’t water," Napoleon warned, anticipating Illya’s assumption. "It’s vodka. Looks like water, but believe me, it has more of a kick to it. Drink it slowly."

Eyebrows raised as Illya experienced the odd sensation of sipping the clear liquid. It was cold, but slightly burned his throat on the way down. He liked it, and chugged the rest.

Dinner was finished, dishes were washed and put away. They sat around the apartment and talked for a while. Napoleon found ice cream in his freezer and brought it out for snack later on in the evening. Shortly, they changed into pajamas and went to bed for the night. Illya’s first day in America was a quiet one.

* * * * *

The following day was planned to be casual. Napoleon would drive Illya around New York. They would walk around the touristy areas and absorb some of the local color. Later in the afternoon, Napoleon planned a casual visit to headquarters, where they would accidentally bump into Gretchen Zeinreich. Despite the seemingly informality of the day, precision planning and security was in force. Solo made sure UNCLE agents backed them up, concerned that Thrush would try to re-abduct Illya. Both he and Mr. Waverly felt a little uneasy about using Illya as ’bait’, hoping to lure Thrush into once again making a move. But with adequate security measures, they should be safe.

They put on their coats and left the apartment. Even the elevator ride was a novelty.

Snow had begun to fall. Light flakes swirled with the brisk wind.

"What is that?" Illya asked, watching flakes fall on the arms of his coat.

"That, my friend, is snow."

Illya held flakes in the palm of his hand, watching them melt. Napoleon explained the meteorological phenomena of snow to his friend, finding amusement in the notion that Illya’s real background consisted of more snow than most people would see in a lifetime.

"What does it do? Does it just float around the sky like that?" Illya asked.

"Actually, if the conditions are right, it lays on the ground and piles up. Sometimes, it’s a few inches, other times a foot or more. What it really does around here is snarl traffic and make people pretty miserable. Somehow, snow is prettier in the country."

They walked to Napoleon’s car, which was safely housed in a garage while he was away. It started up immediately, and with a smile of satisfaction, he put the car in gear and they drove off.

Traffic was unusually light for a midweek morning. Illya was escorted to various parts of the city by car, and selected areas by foot. All the while, UNCLE’s security kept a watchful eye over them.

No one took the bait. The morning was pleasant, but highly uneventful. Illya enjoyed it thoroughly, experiencing the most quintessential city in the world. After lunching in a rather lavish restaurant, they headed to UNCLE headquarters.

They entered UNCLE, as usual, through Del Florio’s shop. Napoleon informed Illya ahead of time that this was secretive, stressing that this entrance was not public knowledge. Once in the changing room, Del buzzed them in. Sultry Genevieve greeted them as they entered, sitting behind her desk with their passes. As usual, Napoleon bent down low as she stood slightly to pin it on his lapel. Genevieve leaned forward, accentuating her ample cleavage. He whispering something in her ear as he quietly sniffed her perfume.

"Chanel?" he asked, stroking back her hair to sniff the scent behind her ear once more.

"Naturally," she purred.

Napoleon sniffed one last time, brushing his lips against the nape of her neck.

Illya looked on, amused. _So this is what Yossi was talking about,_ he thought. _Aah, they do seem to melt._ He was next. Genevieve held the pass, attempting to pin it on his turtleneck, but instead, he smiled and insisted that he could do it himself.

 _Yup...some things definitely do NOT change,_ Napoleon thought, smiling to himself as they left the entrance.


	6. Chapter 6

Mr. Waverly was waiting for them in his office.

"I trust you gentlemen had a restful evening last night," he began, turning to Illya. "I assume Mr. Solo gave you the grand tour this morning. Tell me, Illya, what do you think of New York?"

Illya smiled. "It’s big."

"Anything else?"

"I’ve never seen so many people in my life. Or that many cars. How did they make the buildings so tall?"

"That’s progress, young man." Waverly’s private line sounded. He picked up the receiver, impatiently reminding his personal secretary he did not wish to be disturbed at the moment. He paused, then relented. "All right, you may send her in."

Seconds later, the door to his inner sanctum glided open as an exceptionally beautiful blonde woman quietly entered. Both Mr. Waverly and Napoleon respectfully stood up as she approached. Illya looked at their example and followed.

"Gentlemen, this is Dr. Gretchen Zeinreich. She’ll be with us for a few days," Mr. Waverly began, then introduced both Napoleon and Illya to her.

_Doctor?_ Illya thought.

Solo walked over to her, shaking her hand warmly with his two. "How have you been, Gretchen? It’s been quite a while since we’ve seen each other, hasn’t it?"

"Too long," she replied, smiling sweetly.

"I take it you two know each other," the chief continued.

"Yes, quite well, Mr. Waverly," Gretchen explained. Her voice was soft, with a German accent. "We worked together for a short time in Germany, about a year ago."

_Doctor?_ Illya thought once more. His image of a doctor was either Yossi, Ari, or Vicktor Schwenk. Certainly none as lovely as this woman who stood nearby. His face reddened a bit.

Napoleon chatted casually with Gretchen for a moment, then turned towards Illya. "I’m sorry Illya. This is rude of me. I’d like to introduce you to Gretchen Zeinreich. Gretchen-Illya, Illya-Gretchen."

The lovely woman took Illya’s hand into her own, patting it his with her other hand. "Nice to meet you, Illya. Are you new to UNCLE?"

Illya didn’t know what to say. He was in awe of her title and exception beauty. Not flashy, rather simplistic and understated.

"Yes, he’s relatively new, Gretchen," Napoleon conveniently chimed in. "He’s staying with me for a while until he gets used to New York."

"You’re a doctor?" Illya finally asked.

She smiled, laughing a little. _He really doesn’t know me, does he? Doesn’t remember a thing_ , she thought to herself. "Yes. Primarily, I do research in drugs and pharmaceuticals, antidotes and all those wonderful things. Occasionally, I do a medical doctor stint as well. But usually, I’m holed away in a lab somewhere."

"What a waste," Napoleon sighed.

Mr. Waverly cleared his throat, impatient. "Well, Dr. Zeinreich, I assume you know your way to the lab. All the files and materials you requested should be waiting in the office we set up for you. If you need anything, please let me know."

Gretchen said her thank-yous and goodbyes, and exited.

Mr. Waverly then turned his attention to Napoleon and Illya, sitting down once more. Illya’s gaze followed her out the door.

"Dr. Zeinreich is on loan from our German office for a few days. She’s assisting us on a classified project," Mr. Waverly convincingly explained.

"She’s really a doctor?" Illya asked once more, as he and Napoleon left Mr. Waverly’s office.

"Yes, she is."

"You and she...are you...were you...uh..."

"Old friends?" Napoleon filled in. "Yes, we’re friends."

"But have you...uh..."

"Gone out to dinner with her? Yes, we’ve even done gone to dinner." Napoleon was loving every minute of this. Then he paused. "Are you asking if were lovers?"

Illya reddened again and finally nodded.

"No, we weren’t. Not that I haven’t tried. She just wasn’t interested in me, I guess," Solo confessed, shrugging.

"She seems very nice," Illya said, unsure how to pursue the idea of getting to know her.

Solo read him like a book now. Unlike before, he was no longer the master of disguising his feelings. For the first time since his rescue, Illya actually showed an interest in a woman. He was understandably cautious. The experience he had with Irana was extremely negative and overwhelming, and Napoleon realized it may deter him from pursuing other relationships. Maybe old places and familiar faces would help return Illya to his original self.

"Tell you what, Illya. Before she gets too busy, why don’t we visit her in the lab and see if she wants to meet us for dinner later," Napoleon suggested.

"Us? Why would she want to do that?"

"Hey, why not? We’re two handsome, charming guys, aren’t we?"

"I don’t know..."

"It’s only dinner, Illya. If you don’t like her, or if you’re not comfortable with the situation, we can bow out gracefully and pretend it never happened. What do you say?"

Illya smiled and nodded. "All right."

On route to the lab, they walked by the commissary. As they passed the door, a familiar face caught Napoleon’s attention. He went in and immediately walked up to a gorgeous redheaded woman.

"Janice," he said softly as he approached. "I haven’t seen you in ages. How was South America?"

"Well, if it isn’t Napoleon Solo," she beamed. "You’re a sight for sore eyes. I heard you transferred to the Saudi office for an indeterminate amount of time."

They conversation was animated. Illya took a seat at one of the tables and waited for the tidal wave to pass. Eventually, Napoleon brought this vivacious woman to meet him and made the typical introductions. Although cordial, Illya’s reception to her was cool.

"So we can meet later for drinks?" Napoleon asked before they departed.

"Wouldn’t miss it!" she replied, giving him a subtle kiss on the cheek. With that, she turned and left the commissary.

Napoleon’s gaze followed her sultry saunter until she was out of view.

"Well, Yossi was right," Illya stated.

"Oh?" Napoleon asked, finally returning his attention to Illya.

"You DO have a way with the ladies," he laughed. "If you don’t mind me asking, is she someone you went to bed with?" Illya’s question was innocent, straightforward.

"As a matter of fact, yes," Solo answered, smiling broadly. He saw Illya was about to ask another question. "And to answer your next question, Genevieve as well. Not at the same time of course, although..." he raised an eyebrow, thinking.

The doors to the lab slid open. Gretchen was nowhere in sight, although they heard the softly accented voice speaking on a phone in the distance. Illya looked around at the equipment. So engrossed in the technology, he barely heard Gretchen greeting them as she approached. He turned around, almost startled, when he finally became aware of her voice.

She and Napoleon were talking. Their interaction was in complete opposition to his recent encounter with Janice, and even Genevieve. Gretchen was soft, gentle, understated. Her gaze met Illya’s and he was immediately drawn to her.

"I was just asking Gretchen if she would like to join us for dinner later, Illya," Napoleon started. "She said that her calendar is completely clear, and would love it."

"Only if you two haven’t other plans," she insisted.

"None at all, my dear," Napoleon concluded.

Illya was having a hard time dividing his attention between the lab and the lovely woman in his presence. Both Napoleon and Gretchen silently found humor in it. Illya was alternating looks from Gretchen to the blinking lights and whirring computers in the room.

"Please, Illya. Take a look around," she smiled, taking him by the arm and showing him around the lab. After a short tour, she left him on his own and returned to Napoleon, who was waiting in her office.

"Now Napoleon, refresh my memory. Exactly why am I here?" she asked.

This time, it was Solo who blushed a bit. "This is a little awkward, Gretchen. Mr. Waverly asked me if I knew of anyone in Illya’s past who he loved. You’re the first person I thought of."

"Should I be flattered?"

"His track record isn’t too great."

Gretchen chuckled. "That’s thoughtful of you. I guess it’s easier than if he had to pick one of your past flings. Too many choices. Who could remember all those beautiful nameless faces?" she teased.

"Anyway," Napoleon dramatically continued, "Mr. Waverly asked me to contact you and see if you would come to New York...as...uh...an experiment...to see if familiar people help jog his memory."

She laughed out loud. "Now, does that officially make either you or Mr. Waverly the pimp? This is just too funny, Napoleon. Lucky for you, we’re friends. A girl could take offense at this, you know!"

"We...I appreciate you doing this."

"How far do you expect this to go? It was difficult parting with the ’real’ Illya last year. Difficult for both of us. But we were realistic enough to know that this kind of relationship could be disastrous. I don’t want to hurt ’this’ Illya, who may not understand."

"Take it as far as you want, Gretchen. He’s very gun-shy. His experiences in Saudi Arabia were horrible, and he doesn’t let his guard down with too many people."

"So what else is new?"

"What I’m saying is...he may not want more than a friendship. If you’re willing, play it by ear." Napoleon paused. "You realize, of course, you’re not obligated to do this. I don’t want you to feel like we’re putting you in an uncompromising position."

An alarm sounded. Napoleon looked up. Illya was backing away from one of the computers where he accidentally activated a security alert.

Gretchen rushed over, de-activating it. She called security to tell them that the alarm was false, and reset it.

"So dinner it is," Napoleon concluded. "We’ll see you, aah, eight-ish?"

* * * * *

Gretchen, Illya and Napoleon dined at a little Italian restaurant not far from Solo’s apartment. This was one of Solo’s favorite haunts. The food was delicious, service was friendly, prices were cheap as borscht, and the ambiance reeked of quintessential ’chianti-bottle-with-a-candle-on-a-red-checkered-tablecloth’ Italian restaurant.

"Where are you staying while you’re in town?" Napoleon asked between spoonfuls of his Italian Wedding soup.

"My friend Sheila has an apartment a few blocks from headquarters. She’s on sabbatical in Europe, so when I told her I was planning to visit New York, she handed me her keys and told me to make myself at home."

"Are you all settled in?"

"Yes. I travel light. Her place is roomy and comfortable. The view’s not too great," Gretchen sighed. "She overlooks an alley."

"You should see the view from Napoleon’s apartment," Illya offered, trying hard to make small talk. His level of discomfort in social conversation paralleled the original ’Illya’.

"Oh?"

"You can practically see the whole city," explained Illya, looking over to Solo, hoping he wasn’t talking too much.

"Well, he’s exaggerating a little," Napoleon added, smiling. "It’s not quite the whole city. You’re welcome to come up and see it after dinner."

Napoleon noticed Illya getting a little restless. Gretchen picked up on this as well and declined the invitation.

"Why not come up for a short while?" Illya offered, then reddened slightly at the overture. He hoped the dimmed lights would disguise his blushing.

"Oh, maybe for a short while, then. It wouldn’t be an inconvenience, would it?"

"No, not at all," Napoleon assured. "I may have to cut out shortly after we get there. I’m meeting Janice for a few drinks tonight."

"Aah...one more notch in your belt, eh?" Gretchen laughed.

* * * * *

The trio went to Napoleon’s apartment after finishing dinner. They stood by one of his large windows. Gretchen, too, was awestruck by the magnificent view.

"This is gorgeous. Not even an alley in sight," she mused.

Napoleon left momentarily, returning with three stemmed glasses and a bottle of champagne. He popped the cork and offered a toast to ’magnificent views’.

"Please forgive my lack of hospitality, but I’m rather low on junk food at the moment. I haven’t had a chance to go shopping yet."

Illya turned to Gretchen. "But there is ice cream in the freezer," he added innocently, smiling.

"Actually, the champagne is fine...all by itself," Gretchen responded graciously.

They sat around and talked for a short while, then Solo looked at his watch and bolted up. "I must really sound like an awful host, but I do have to leave," he said, gathering his overcoat and heading towards the door. He smiled. "If I recall, Janice is not known for her patience." He made his good-byes and left.

Illya re-set the security system after the door shut. Then he went into the kitchen and looked through the cabinets, knowing they were empty, looking for something he knew wasn’t there. Gretchen recognized the symptoms of uneasiness.

"Can I help you with something?" she asked.

"Uh...no...I was looking for something to munch on."

"Are you still hungry?"

"Uh...no...I thought you might be."

Gretchen entered the kitchen. "Not really. I’m really full from dinner." She paused. "What kind of music does Napoleon like?"

The blond agent looked at her and shrugged his shoulders.

"Do you mind if I take a look?" Gretchen asked. Anything divert his discomfort and put him at ease. She walked back into the living room and browsed through the LPs neatly standing in a rack. She selected a Vivaldi. "Do you like Vivaldi?"

More discomfort. What was intended to help him feel less uncomfortable was now making him worse. His ignorance prevented him from forming an opinion, and he was at a loss for words.

"Well, Illya, Vivaldi is one of my favorites." Gretchen removed the record from its jacket and sleeve, turned on the stereo and placed the LP on the central peg. The record lowered onto the turntable. Before placing the arm on the record, she tested the needle with her finger. A scratchy sound came from the speakers as the needle ran over the ridges of her fingertip. The arm and needle made contact with the record, and the lively Vivaldi notes sounded.

"This is ’The Four Seasons’, one of his most popular pieces," she explained, sitting on the floor with her back resting against the couch. Gretchen motioned for Illya to join her. He did, and the two of them sat side by side, listening to Vivaldi and discussing the nuances of the music.

Side One ended. Illya looked at her, not knowing what to do next.

"I’ll turn the record over," she offered, getting up to flip the record to it’s second side. Illya watched intently as she did it, absorbing every action.

Gretchen sat back down again. Illya noticed the three empty champagne glasses, and refilled Gretchen’s and his own, bringing them over before he sat. He was enjoying this more than he expected. This woman was gracious, gentle, understanding. Easy to talk to. His greatest fear of being with her was a repeat of his experience wit Irana...feeling inadequate and being berated. Gretchen did neither. Rather, he felt as if he was with an old friend. Comfortable.

Side Two ended. They sat in silence momentarily. Illya picked up on the cue that the record had to either be changed or the stereo turned off.

He replaced the record in its sleeve and jacket and selected another Vivaldi.

"You can place more than one record on at a time," Gretchen offered. She stood up as well and showed Illya how to stack several records on the peg before playing them. "That way, you don’t have to get up as often."

They were standing close. Too close. Illya could feel warmth radiating from her body and wanted desperately to back away...but he feared that would offend her. He could smell her perfume. Visions of Napoleon seductively sniffing Genevieve's perfume came to mind, but Illya didn’t have the nerve to be that forward. Rather, he guided her back to their spots on the rug and they sat. This time a little closer.

The champagne was making Gretchen sleepy, and half way through the first LP, her eyes closed. A short while later, she was asleep. Illya didn’t know what to do. Should he leave her there, sleeping? Would it be better to wake her up? Maybe she should leave. Maybe he should leave. She instinctively leaned towards the warmth of his body, nestling her head on his shoulder.

By the end of the second record, her body was shifting, seeking a more comfortable position for sleep. Illya slid away from her just slightly, lowering her torso so his lap pillowed her head. Gretchen curled up on her side, sound asleep. He closed his eyes as well, allowing the soft notes of the classical music lull him to sleep.

Later...it must have been much later, Illya heard the locks click and door open. No more music. Had several hours passed? The stereo’s turntable was spinning, but the last record had ended and the needle was back in the armrest. Through the haze of being awakened, Illya heard a familiar voice softly call his name the person got closer. Napoleon. Back from his evening with Janice. It was beginning to make sense now.

Solo squatted down next to him. "Too much champagne?" he joked.

"I think so," Illya responded sleepily, looking down at the sleeping beauty curled up next to him. His eyes widened a bit, and he shot a glance to Napoleon. "What do we do next?" he whispered.

Napoleon moved closer to their guest, shaking her gently.

Almost immediately, Gretchen opened her eyes, assessing the situation. She looked at her watch. "Four o’clock!" she shrieked. "I’ve been asleep for hours!" She looked at both Napoleon and Illya. "I am so sorry, guys! I don’t know what came over me." She quickly got to her feet and looked around for her handbag and coat. "Please forgive me."

Solo put his arm around her to calm her down. "Gretchen, it’s late. Why not just stay the night," he offered. Both Illya and Gretchen blushed slightly. "It’s all Kosher, of course. My dear, you can take Illya’s bed, and Illya" Napoleon continued, making sure he had eye contact with Illya, "...you can sleep on the couch."

Silence.

"Settled, then?" Solo asked.

More silence, then Gretchen smiled and nodded in agreement.

Napoleon handed her one of his oversized T-shirts to sleep in. She promptly changed and slipped between the covers, falling back to sleep within minutes.

"That wasn’t too bad, was it now?" Napoleon asked Illya once the arrangements were made. "So tell me, how did your evening with Gretchen go?" the senior agent asked, filling a fresh glass with some of the remaining champagne.

Illya smiled. "You were right. She really is very nice."

"So you were comfortable? The two of you got along all right?"

"Yes."

"Do you plan to pursue a...uh...more intense friendship?"

Silence again. Then a shrug.

"Well, take it slow and easy. That’s the best way," Solo recommended.

"Slow and easy?"

"Don’t rush the relationship. You’ll know if you’re ready to move forward."

"Forward?"

Napoleon chuckled. _Christ, this is the ’birds and bees’ talk,_ he thought. "Into a more physical relationship...and by ’physical’," Solo added, anticipating Illya’s next question, "I’m referring to having sex."

More silence.

"On the subject of sex," Illya said slowly, trying the divert the awkwardness, "how was your date with Janice."

"What makes you think we had sex?"

"I can smell her perfume on you. Was it ’Chanel’, like Genevieve's?"

Napoleon laughed out loud. "You’re very perceptive, Illya. To answer your questions, Janice and I had a great time and yes, we did get rather close...and no, her perfume was ’Tabu’."

* * * * *

The next few days barely gave Illya a chance to breathe. Having been cleared and deemed fit by the medical section, arrangements were made for him to begin extensive self-defense training. Bret Müller, the trainer selected to be the instructor, was quite different from Olaf. While Olaf was large and intimidating, Bret was short and solidly stocky. Napoleon always mused that had Bret chosen a different career, it would have been as a longshoreman. One with a sordid history, of course.

In his previous existence, Illya knew Bret as well. They had sparred in the past, and both he and Napoleon knew that Müller’s size was deceptive. The man was as deadly as they came.

Müller was unsure how to handle Illya at first. The blond agent stood rigid as Bret started going over several basics of self defense. Illya seemed unable or unwilling to participate. Finally, Müller charged at him, forcing Illya to either make a defensive move or be clobbered.

With arms raised to protect his face, Illya managed to maneuver out of harm’s way, averting Bret’s attack.

"Good, good," praised Bret. "That’s a start."

Bret tried to be optimistic, but like other UNCLE agents who had known Kuryakin in the past, it hurt deeply to see how Thrush’s impact on him. The trainer decided to take off the kid gloves and go after Illya with a fierce determination.

After several days, it paid off. Though suffering more cuts and bruises than he expected, Illya became able to protect himself with basic hand-to-hand combat in a very short time.

Napoleon watched from behind a two-way mirror periodically. Mr. Waverly joined him once or twice. Both men were amazed at Illya’s skill and agility.

"It’s like a second nature to him," Solo commented, watching as Müller put Illya through the paces. His friend came back at his trainer each time, fiercer than before.

"Almost as though those moves are so deeply embedded in him, they come naturally."

Mr. Waverly quietly nodded, agreeing.

"Have you discussed finances with him yet, Mr. Solo?" the old man asked.

"No. It’s on my list of things to do."

"Well, let him know he’s not dirt poor. I’m sure by now he’s feeling a little self conscious about having everything paid for him. He definitely does not seem like the type of man who feels the world owes him a living."

It was UNCLE’s policy to bank the salaries of their missing agents until they were either found or proven dead. In cases where neither was determined, their pay was secured for a respectable period of time, then assuming the agent had died, used the unwithdrawn money for scholarships which could secure new recruits.

Throughout this ordeal, Napoleon made sure Illya’s paychecks were secured and the rent was paid. When he left for Saudi Arabia, Solo paid both their rents several months in advance, ensuring that neither would be evicted when (not if) they returned.

The day following his conversation with Mr. Waverly, Napoleon introduced Illya to the world of banking - primarily how to access money from a savings account.

"Whose money is this?" Illya asked.

"It’s yours, Illya," Solo responded, already knowing his friend’s next query.

"Where did it come from? I don’t have a job."

"Well...in a sense, you do. Mr. Waverly has employed you with UNCLE, and placed you on the payroll."

"I have a job?"

"Yes."

"What is it?"

"For the moment, he’s having you educated and trained."

Illya thought a moment. "Shouldn’t I pay him for that?"

Solo smiled. "He’s very generous."

* * * * *

Mr. Waverly sent Napoleon on two short missions, leaving Illya to fend for himself. It was up to the Russian to get to work, get back to Solo’s apartment, provide for, feed, and entertain himself. He did so with great efficiency. What he was unaware of was UNCLE’s undercover agents watching out for him, on alert if Thrush planned abduct him once more. Illya blended in with New York and became one of the many millions living and working in the city.

His evenings were spent with Gretchen, dining, quietly relaxing, listening to music, talking. They formed a close platonic friendship, occasionally moving a little closer. Often withdrawing back into the safety of a little distance. Illya hated his fear of intimacy, and hoped it wouldn’t push Gretchen away. Even more than his fear of intimacy was Illya’s fear of another Irana-esque experience.

Napoleon returned home after his second mission to find Illya and Gretchen once again listening to music. Only this time, Illya sat with his back propped up against the couch with Gretchen in front of him, arms around her. They got up shortly after he came in.

"How was your mission?" Illya asked, eyeing Napoleon from head to foot. Dirt and debris tumbled off him as he removed his parka.

"Gross and disgusting. I’ll say no more," he mumbled, plodding into the bathroom. The door closed and Napoleon immediately turned on the shower, stripped, and got under the tingling stream of water. Two days of muck and mire washed down the drain.

A tap sounded on the bathroom door. Then the door opened slightly, allowing curls of steam to escape into the hallway.

"Are you hungry?" a familiar voice called in.

"Famished," came the reply.

Napoleon reluctantly finished his shower. He would have preferred to stay under the running water all night, soothing away two days of sitting outdoors in a muddy field, but the reality of the hot water turning cold ended the fantasy. He dried the droplets of water which clung to his weary body, looked at himself through a fogged mirror and decided to he was too tired to shave.

Finally, he emerged from the bathroom clean and smelling better than when he entered. Gretchen was pouring pasta into a large bowl as he entered the kitchen. Solo smiled, unaccustomed to being waited on. The table was set for three.

He slid into a chair, closing his eyes in exhaustion as he settled down. His wine glass was filled with Chardonney, and he looked at its clarity before taking his first sip.

"It goes well with blush sauce," Illya said.

"Ah, you’ve become a connoisseur in my absence," Solo smiled, pleased to see that his friend was fairing well. "Did you make dinner also?"

"No, I haven’t gotten the hang of cooking yet."

_So what else is new?_ Napoleon thought. "That’s why the good Lord gave us great friends and take-out!" he said, raising his glass in a toast.

After eating, Napoleon excused himself and headed straight for bed. A nice warm, dry bed. Surveillance is often tedious and unpleasant, but when surveillance extends to two days in mud and rain, it becomes insufferable. Eventually, his prey surfaced and was apprehended, so Napoleon could return home.

Gretchen and Illya cleaned up and then finished off the remaining Chardonney. He had the urge to touch the beautiful woman standing before him...touch her face, run his hands along the curves of her body, feel her warmth close to him.

_Nasir’s wife lowered his trousers until they fell loosely around his ankles. He stood still, unable to move. She coaxed one foot at a time out of the heap on the floor, and while still holding him, moved around until they faced each other._

_"Undress me," she quietly ordered._

_Illya was gasping. "I...I...can’t...Please stop. Nasir will be very angry."_

_"He’ll never know. Now undress me."_

_With shaking hands, Illya began removing her garments one by one, dropping them on the floor around her, until she stood before him totally nude. He stared at the contours of her skin, the gentle mounds of her breasts, the curve of her hips, the soft tufts of hair between her thighs. It was exhilarating, exciting._

He rejected any thought of intimacy.

* * * * *

Two days later, Gretchen was summoned to Mr. Waverly’s office.

"Dr. Zeinreich, you’ve been called back to Germany. The Berlin office needs you to complete an assignment there. I appreciate you coming on such short notice, but duty calls."

"My pleasure, Mr. Waverly. It was good seeing you again."

"How did it go with Mr. Kuryakin?"

"Well, he didn’t remember me at all. But once we became acquainted, he felt comfortable with me..." she paused, smiling, "...like a sister. In all honesty, I doubt I jogged anything in his memory."

"Very well, then, Dr. Zeinreich. Flight arrangements have been made for you. You leave tomorrow morning at 5 am. The weather conditions seem a little ominous, so my secretary booked you a room at the airport’s hotel. You won’t have to slosh through the city if it’s inclimate."

Gretchen stood, extending her hand to Mr. Waverly. "Thank you, Sir."

They shook hands, then she turned to leave. As she left the office, she felt herself choke up slightly.

Her next stop was Napoleon’s office. Solo was on the phone when she entered, but he motioned that he would only be a moment. After he hung up the receiver, she told him the news. It was inevitable.

Illya was still in a training session when she entered the gym. Gretchen smiled as she watched him; he looked more and more like his original self. He requested a moment’s break from Müller, and came over to see her. Illya’s body language reflected his disappointment when she told him the news. He didn’t understand ’inevitable’.

The last stop in headquarters was her office, where Gretchen packed up the few files she brought. After tidying up, she sat down and placed her head in her hands, sighing. Gretchen did understand ’inevitable’, but it hurt just as well. She then went back to her friend’s apartment and packed.

Napoleon made reservations for an early dinner, allowing Gretchen adequate to leave for the airport hotel. Snow was falling when they entered the restaurant, but all weather forecasts indicated that the front would go out to sea, leaving the area dusted with flurries.

Throughout dinner, Illya was quieter than usual. He was having difficulty articulating or even understanding what he was feeling. Gretchen’s departure orders were abrupt. He assumed she would be in his life forever. Why would she have to leave? Couldn’t she stay in New York?

The trio exited the restaurant after dessert, walking through the ’dusting’ of flurries which had accumulated to a white covering on the ground. Illya squatted down and scooped up a small handful, looking at it curiously as it melted in his palm.

"How high does it get?" he finally asked, not really knowing what to do or say next.

"It depends on how much falls. We don’t usually get too much snow around here," Solo explained, trying to fill in the void.

An empty taxi approached. Napoleon hailed it, and the cabbie came to a halt at the curb. Solo looked in, smiling. Antonio Vassi, UNCLE undercover agent extraordinnaire, looked like the quintessential New York Cabbie. Bronx accent and all.

"Where’s ’ya goin’?" he asked. Seeing the small suitcase, he got out of the cab and opened the trunk, placing the bag inside.

"Airport hotel," Napoleon instructed, opening the door for Gretchen. He warmly embraced her and wished her a bon voyage after kissing her on the forehead. Illya was next in line for the good-byes. His anxiety was noticeable.

"Hey Blondie!" Antonio called to Illya. "’Ya comin’ or not?" he asked impatiently. "I don’t have all night."

Illya looked at Solo for guidance. Going to the airport with Gretchen was never a consideration, but it sounded good. Napoleon shrugged, leaving the decision to his friend.

"I’ll see you later," Illya called, getting into the cab with Gretchen. Antonio closed the door, got back behind the wheel and drove off.

* * * * *

The weather on Queens was a little more severe than in the city. It took the cab driver twice as long to maneuver through snarled traffic in Manhattan and later on the Beltway. Antonio cracked the usual cabbie remarks about the weather and awful drivers as he himself wove through traffic.

Gretchen was aware that he would be her escort. Now he would have to find some cockamamie reason to be there when Illya returned later that evening. Another New York moment.

The check-in counter at the airport hotel was hectic. Would-be travelers were afraid of getting stranded and not making their morning flights, so the demand for rooms was great. Fortunately, Gretchen had a reservation, so her check-in was hassle-free. Not so lucky for many others, who began arguing with the clerks that their needs were greater than the others waiting in line.

The hotel room was modest. UNCLE was not known for supporting extravagance. It contained a double bed, end tables and lamps, a small round table with two chairs, and a tidy compact bathroom. The walls were decorated with generic homogenized hotel wallpaper, accented with color-coordinated drapes and bedspread.

Illya looked around. He had never been in a hotel room before. Gretchen looked around as well, but for listening devices, not accoutrements. She asked him to leave the drapes closed until she was done.

Once Gretchen was satisfied the room was bug-free, she and Illya looked out the window. Their room overlooked the entranceway to the hotel. At five floors up, they got a birds-eye view of the mass pandemonium beginning occur below. Snow was still falling lightly, with no real threat of a major storm. People still panicked, afraid to miss their early flights.

Illya sat in one of the chair, looking absently out the window.

"Why do you have to leave?" he finally asked.

"My office in Germany needs me to return. I was only on loan to the New York Office for a short time," Gretchen explained.

"Couldn’t you finish your work here?"

"It’s not that easy, Illya," she continued, moving closer to him. She bent down behind his chair, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and rested her chin on his head. "I work with several other people, and we’re coordinating our results."

Illya closed his eyes, absorbing the sensation of being held. He wanted so desperately to be close to her.

_Illya was content, satisfied, ready to leave. Irana wasn’t. She wanted more, and the demands to perform throughout the morning became increasingly wearing and stressful. What began as an extremely pleasurable interlude for Illya became a tedious duty, a task, something he was being forced to do. Drained, Illya’s performance diminished with each episode. Irana became increasingly irate, harshly ridiculing and berating him, and finally dismissed him from her bed._

He couldn’t shake the fear.

Knowing only sketchy details about his recent past, Gretchen was not going to pressure him. She playfully mussed up his hair with her hands, then sat down next to him in the remaining chair.

"Can I go with you?" Illya asked quietly.

"Perhaps Mr. Waverly can arrange that later, but not right now."

Illya turned to her. "Will I ever see you again?"

She smiled warmly. "Yes, you can count on it."

They talked for another hour or so when Gretchen checked her watch.

"It’s getting late, Illya, and I have to be up at the crack of dawn to catch my plane," Gretchen said as she stood up.

Kuryakin nodded. "I guess I should be heading back to Manhattan," he said softly, eyes downcast. This was obviously painful for him as well. "I really enjoyed spending time with you, Gretchen."

He embraced her, stroking her hair, taking in her warmth. At that moment, he would have preferred to remain frozen in time, never letting her go. Eventually, he kissed her on the cheek, put on his overcoat and said his final goodbyes.

His footsteps faded down the hallway. The elevator chimed as it answered the call to the fifth floor, and then the door whooshed shut. Gretchen activated her communicator to call Antonio.

"He’s on his way down," Gretchen said.

"Dat’s kinda early," Antonio responded, chuckling.

"What’s it like down there?"

"A veritable madhouse," he mused. "Oh, there he is. Talk to you later."

From the window, Gretchen watched the people scramble for available taxis. Antonio was bombarded by hoards of stranded travelers when he approached the entrance. She could see him getting out of his cab and trying to shoo them away, but they were persistent, and several climbed into his taxi regardless.

Antonio kept an eye on Illya, who had no idea the taxi was meant solely for him. The blond agent looked around, assessing the situation. These people surely needed a ride more than he, so he turned around and went back into the lobby.

Gretchen’s communicator sounded. "Zeinreich."

"Well, my dear. Looks like he’s being chivalrous...and it looks like you may have an overnight guest," he said, trying to talk into his own communicator discreetly. "I think I’ll take some of these nice people back to the city."

Seconds later, her phone rang.

"Hello...it’s Illya," the voice started, somewhat uncertain.

"Oh, hi! Where are you?" she asked innocently.

"Downstairs. It’s really crazy down here. These people need a cab more than I do. Can I come back up and spend the night? It would probably be easier for me to leave in the morning."

About ten minutes later, Illya knocked on her door. Gretchen was beginning to wonder what took so long. When she opened the door, she saw why. Illya entered holding a brown-bag-covered wine bottle in one hand, and a toothbrush in the other. She laughed. Obviously seduction lessons á la Napoleon Solo.

He came in and placed his purchases on the table, then proceeded to take off his overcoat. Unexpectedly, he turned around, wrapping his arms tightly around Gretchen, holding her close. She tilted up her head, kissing him gently on the lips.

Illya froze slightly. This kind of kissing was new, unlike the peck on the cheek or forehead. She continued and it took only seconds for him to almost melt like the snow he had held in his palm.

A gentle hand began to caress his back, then two hands. The feeling began to create subtle tremors with him. Illya followed her example, and began exploring her body with his hands. His eyes were closed, and the vision of Irana returned to haunt.

_The slave stood still, allowing Nasir’s wife to undress him. The shirt first. She sensually moved her hands over his body, tracing each protruding rib, causing small shockwaves to course through him. Moving around him, she rested her chest against his back, lightly running her hands over his chest, focusing on his nipples. Illya shuddered at the sensation, closing his eyes. His breathing became more rapid, and he gently panted with his mouth slightly open._

Illya wanted to back away, finding a safer distance. He felt that Gretchen was holding him too closely, until he realized that he was the one holding on tightly. Irana’s haunting memory persisted.

_The soft hands slid under the waistband of his loose fitting trousers, cupping his buttocks then moving around his hips to his genitals. Illya looked down, aware that his own penis was becoming erect. Panic began to set in. Despite the pleasurable sensations he was feeling, deep inside he knew this was taboo._

His eyes opened wide, startled. Illya broke into a cold sweat, breathing heavily. The anxiety of reliving his experience with Irana was controlling him. He looked down at a confused Gretchen.

"What’s wrong?" she asked, combing her fingers through his hair.

After several more deep breaths, he answered her. "Irana."

"Irana? Who is that?"

Illya shook his head slowly and stepped away from Gretchen, turning away.

"I’m so sorry," he said softly. He wrapped his own arms around his chest, hoping this would ease the pain.

Gretchen moved around in front of him, looking him directly in the eyes. "Sorry for what?"

He couldn’t answer.

"Did she hurt you?"

Still no answer, just heavy breathing.

"Are you afraid I’ll hurt you also?"

Illya simply nodded, eyes gazing off into the distance.

She brushed the hair out of his eyes, redirecting his attention to her.

"I understand," she said quietly, kissing him on the cheek. "It’s after eleven, and I have to be up in a few hours to catch my plane. I’m going to change and jump into bed."

Gretchen went through her suitcase until she found a pair of pajamas and her cosmetics bag. With them, she retreated into the bathroom, emerging several minutes later ready for bed.

Illya was sitting in the chair, watching the snow. She walked over to him and kissed him chastely on the top of his head.

"Good night," she said quietly.

"Good night."

After turning off the lights, Gretchen climbed into bed and pulled the covers around her. The sky seemed brighter with the falling snow, and Illya cast an eerie silhouette sitting in front of the window.


	7. Chapter 7

It seemed like Gretchen was asleep for only a few minutes when a soft voice and gentle hand woke her up. Illya was sitting on the edge of her bed. She checked the clock. A little before midnight.

"Are you alright?" she asked in a sleepy voice.

"Yes." He paused. "Can I join you? I’m cold and that chair isn’t very comfortable."

"Of course." Gretchen pulled back the blanket, inviting Illya to lie down with her.

He kicked off his shoes and got under the warm, cozy blankets. Illya sighed as the warmth surrounded him. "Mmmm, this is much better," he murmured. He moved closer to Gretchen, eventually making contact with her. "Thank you for understanding," he started. "Irana was an awful, hurtful woman. You’re not like that at all." Illya eased his arms around Gretchen, drawing her closer. "I’ve wanted to hold you and be close since the day we met." He placed his lips on hers, covering her mouth with soft, seductive kisses.

"Are you sure about this?" Gretchen asked.

"Absolutely."

Illya’s kisses traveled down her neck and lingered on the soft skin at its base for several moments. His hands unbuttoned her pajama top, exposing her soft, round breasts beneath. He tenderly massaged them, then lowered his head to surround the nipples from one breast in his mouth, then the other. Gretchen responded with soft moans of pleasure. The last time she felt this way was with him almost a year ago. But he had no idea they had made love before. Yet, his touch hadn’t changed.

With nimble fingers, Gretchen began to disrobe her lover. Through his trousers, she was able to feel his erection. The sensation of Gretchen unbuckling the belt and unzipping his slacks excited him even more. He reclined as she unbuttoned his shirt, splaying the open sides back, exposing his chest. As she teased his nipples with her tongue, excitement coursed through him.

They both wriggled out of their shirts and embraced, kissing deeply and hard. Concerned about seeming too aggressive, Gretchen waited until Illya made the next move. His hands slid beneath her pajama bottoms, caressing her buttocks first, then sliding his hand between her thighs, gently stroking her soft pubic hair and lingering a little longer when he felt her clitoris. She melted with the sensation, moaning softly.

Illya gently slid the remainder of her pajamas under her hips and removed them completely, gazing lovingly at the nude woman lying next to him. Gretchen reached over and helped Illya out of his trousers and underwear. Once released, his enlarged penis sprang from the confinement of the clothing.

He lay back down next to her, holding her close, kissing her passionately. Their bodies writhed together, heightening their arousal.

"Illya, make love to me," she whispered, gently nipping at his earlobe.

In what seemed like an effortless maneuver, Illya slid on top of her, separating her thighs with his knees. He kept his eyes open, tenderly watching as they made love. Moving closer, he brought the tip of his penis to the moist opening of her vagina. Gretchen was breathing heavily, waiting for the surge of his penetration.

Illya watched Gretchen’s chest heave when he entered. Slowly at first, he pushed himself part way into her and withdrew a little. He moved a little deeper, and withdrew once more. Then he filled her with his entire penis, moving slowly, rhythmically. She gasped once more at the feeling of having him totally inside of her, probing her as deeply as possible. Her hips began moving with his rhythms, heightening the sensitivity for both. Their rhythms increased in speed as they neared a climax, and when they exploded in orgasms, their bodies arched and convulsed with the sensations.

Depleted and gasping for breath, they settled into each other’s arms in post-coital exhaustion. The sex was phenomenal for both of them. Better than Illya remembered with Irana. Better than Gretchen remembered with Illya a year before.

The mere feeling of holding her body aroused him again. Gretchen could feel his penis stiffening. She reached down and fondled his erect cock, still wet from their lovemaking. They kissed and caressed each other until Illya could contain himself no longer, then they made passionate love once more. The second time seemed more intense than the first, and when they were through, exhaustion overcame them and they fell asleep.

A communicator sounded. Had they only been asleep a few minutes? Gretchen fumbled for her pen in the dark, checking the clock as she activated it. 2:20 am. Who the hell would be contacting her at this hour?

"Zeinreich," she said, sleepily.

"Good morning, Dr. Zeinreich." Mr. Waverly was on the other end.

She returned his greeting with a mumbled "Good Morning."

"I just wanted to inform you that your flight has been canceled. It seems as though the front moved out to sea as planned, then decided to return inland. To make a long story short, the storm dumped about a foot and a half of snow in the area so far, and all flights are canceled. Go back to sleep."

"Thank you, Sir. I’ll call the airport and reschedule my flight."

"My secretary took the liberty of doing that for you. Tomorrow morning, 8 am."

"Great. I need to call the front desk to see if they can give me the room for one more night."

"My secretary also took the liberty of doing that for you."

Gretchen chuckled. "Did you secretary also cancel my wake-up call?"

"No...no...I think she overlooked that one."

"No problem, Mr. Waverly. Thanks for telling me."

"Doesn’t he ever sleep?" a sleepy voice beside her asked as she closed her communicator.

"I doubt it," she sighed.

Illya moved closer, kissing her. "We could out-do him, you know," he said, chuckling.

"He has a lot of stamina," Gretchen warned.

"Hmmm, so do we."

Gretchen began to laugh.

"Did I say something funny?" Illya asked, looking at her quizzically.

"No, not at all," she replied, trying to contain herself. "It’s the whole scenario, Illya. Being stranded, snowbound...it reminds me of a cheap romance novel."

"What’s a romance novel?"

The sky was lightening with the onset of dawn when Gretchen and Illya finished making love. Once again exhausted, they settled into each other’s arms and fell asleep.

Antonio Vassi’s orders were to deliver Gretchen to the airport’s Departures Entrance, then immediately return to Manhattan with Kuryakin. When Illya commented about seeing Antonio the Cab Drive once more, Vassi simply explained that it was one of those New York coincidences.

"A big city with millions of people, and look who I bump into this morning!" he exclaimed boisterously as he picked up his hotel passengers that morning. "Off to the airport, I assume."

As Gretchen was leaving the cab, Antonio motioned for Illya to follow her. A few more seconds together. Uncomfortable with the change of plans, Gretchen only walked about ten feet away from the cab with Illya. They held each other momentarily and kissed goodbye before turning away from each other and departing. Before entering the terminal doors, Gretchen intuitively looked over her shoulder to make sure Illya had entered the cab safely. He was gone. The cab was gone.

Her mind began to race. Immediately, she scanned the throngs of people entering and exiting the area. No one looked familiar. Vehicles of all sorts, cabs, limousines, busses, cars were moving about in different stages of passenger drop-offs.

"Open Channel D," she ordered after opening her pen communicator. In an attempt to be discreet with the crowds all around, she pretended to write in a note pad while speaking. "Kuryakin, please."

Immediately, she heard the sound of an activated communicator. She tapped her own pen lightly to see if it was malfunctioning, then realized the sound was coming from the ground near her feet.

"Open Channel D," she repeated, this time requesting to be connected to Antonio Vassi. No response.

"Open Channel D, urgent!" was her third call to Mr. Waverly. "They’re missing, Sir. Both Illya and Vassi. Can you track them?"

Alexander Waverly checked his tracking system and found that both signals were in the general vicinity and stationery. Gretchen proceeded to investigate, and found Antonio’s motionless body first. He was propped up a pile of plastic trash bags with his head slumped forward on his chest. She squatted down next to him and checked for a pulse. It was weak, but steady. After a quick assessment, she reported that he had been struck on the head and unconscious, requiring medical attention.

Next, Gretchen shuffled through the bags for signs of Illya. No body, no blood, no sign of struggle. She moved several more bags and found a belt - Illya’s belt which housed his tracking device. Surely he had more than one on him.

"They have him," she reported to Mr. Waverly.

"I’ve alerted the airport security to check vehicles leaving the area. They’re also on alert to check passengers with his description. The same for LaGuardia, Newark, Philadelphia and all the smaller airports in the area."

She sighed audibly.

"Come back to Manhattan, Dr. Zeinreich. I’ll summon Mr. Solo and hopefully we can avert a replay of Mr. Kuryakin’s experiences."

Napoleon Solo had just finished an assignment in Morocco. He had spent the past two days trying to return an American diplomat to the Embassy. What began as a simple night out almost became a touchy international incident. Solo’s tact and persistence circumvented the possibility of negative repercussions from the diplomat’s recent indiscretions. When the call was received, Napoleon was in the midst of sunning himself on his hotel balcony, enjoying what was left of the rest of visit to Morocco.

"He’s missing? How is that possible?" Solo hissed into the pen.

"It was possible and it did happen, Mr. Solo, so we have to deal with it," Mr. Waverly stated matter-of-factly. "Dr. Zeinreich has returned to headquarters. I want you to stay in Morocco. If they smuggle him out of the country and back to Saudi Arabia, you’ll be in close proximity."

Antonio Vassi’s brief lapse of judgment gave Thrush the momentary advantage to abduct Kuryakin again. 

As Illya parted from Gretchen, a well dressed businesswoman accidentally bumped into him, dropping her valise. Illya paused to help her pick it up. As he stooped down, a man dressed in a security guard’s uniform moved in quickly to disarm him. Vassi saw the scene unfolding and left the cab to guard Illya. He had barely shut the door when his limbs went numb, then limp. He felt himself being "assisted" to a less crowded area, and after being hit on the head, fell unconscious. The last thing he saw before being taken away was the security guard escorting a handcuffed Illya into the back of an official looking security van. He knew this was not bona fide airport security agents, but to the casual onlooker, their appearance would allow them to haul someone off unquestioned. When he finally regained consciousness at UNCLE’s medical unit, he briefed Mr. Waverly on the succession of events.


	8. Chapter 8

_Cold steel tables loomed into view. Bright overhead lights. Medical equipment stood around. Monitors. IV tubes. Someone was lying on the table. Cold. Naked. In restraints. An IV needle pierced his arm. He couldn’t pull away._

_He was the person. Illya. Face down, unable to move, unable to get away. Bound to the table by his hands and feet. It was cold. He shivered, desperately wanting a blanket. His stomach burned. Hunger. The muscles ached, the skin down the back of his body was sore. A voice broke the silence. A familiar voice._

_"Are you ready yet?"_

The dream faded as Illya slowly opened his eyes, squinting to prevent too much of the harsh light from adding to his discomfort. Through his slitted eyelids, he observed medical equipment. The room appeared to be surrounded by glass walls. Several people in white labcoats walked by, looking in as they passed.

His head ached terribly and his muscles hurt. Nausea overtook his stomach. The last thing he remembered was saying goodbye to Gretchen. He needed a moment to remember why they were parting. The pieces began falling into place. A slight smile spread across his lips as he remembered spending hours in bed with her.

The room he was felt cold. He was lying on his stomach. Through the grogginess, he realized that he was lying on a metal table, shivering. Several times he unsuccessfully tried drawing his arms and legs closer, hoping to retain some of his own body heat. He looked over to one of his shoulders. No shirt. He pressed his thighs against the table and realized his pants were gone. His arms and legs were spread apart and would not move.

Panic set in. He was living one of his nightmares. Frantically, Illya pulled at the bindings which held his wrists and ankles secured to the table. They would not budge. He tried to turn his head to face the other side of his surroundings, but the sheer movement almost caused him to black out again.

_Cold. Naked. In restraints. He couldn’t pull away._

A voice broke the silence. Illya had difficulty distinguishing the words and even more difficulty trying to answer. Whatever drugs they subdued him with had not yet worn off, and his senses were dulled.

A sharp pain on the back of his thighs broke through his hazed state, followed by several more on his back, legs and buttocks. Someone grabbed him by the hair, forcing his head to arch upwards.

The Voice tried talking to him again. Since he was still unable to answer coherently, the blows continued.

Realizing it was useless to communicate with Illya, the Voice left the room, slamming the door behind him.

Full consciousness was slowly returning. Illya tried to remain calm and rational. He knew this place. He had been here before, against his will. This scenario had been disrupted his sleep many times in the past. Parts were missing. When was he here? What did they do to him? How did he manage to get out? How did Vicktor Schwenk fit in?

A short while later the Voice returned.

"Are you awake now?"

Illya nodded vacantly, staring off in the distance.

"Who are you?" the Voice asked.

Silence.

"Tell me your name," the Voice demanded.

The blond agent closed his eyes, not wanting to answer. Obviously this man knew him already.

Illya sensed something was wrong. He opened his eyes at the moment the Voice’s arm was raised, holding a thick leather strap which immediately came down across his bare back.

"I’m in no mood for games. Tell me your name."

"Illya," he said between gasps.

"Illya what?"

"Illya."

The Voice once again grabbed a handful of blond hair, forcing Illya to make eye contact as his head was lifted off the table.

"Do you know who I am?" The Voice asked.

"No."

"You’ve never seen me before?"

"No...no...I haven’t."

The Voice released his head and began circling the table, asking questions.

"Where have you been the past few weeks?"

"With my new master," Illya replied. His mind was racing. When UNCLE opened their doors to him, he understood that their hospitality came with certain secrets and security issues that were not considered common knowledge to outsiders. He was ignorant when Solo found him, why should he act any different now?

"What was his name?"

Illya hesitated. They knew damn well who bought him.

"Napoleon."

"Napoleon Solo?"

"Yes." _Keep the answers simple,_ he told himself.

"Where did he take you?"

"To a hospital."

Hands poked and prodded Illya’s arms, back, and midsection.

"They patched you up very well. Even your leg healed without too much damage. Do you remember your doctor’s name?"

"No."

"Where did you go next?"

Silence. _How much should I tell them?_

"I’ll ask you one more time. Where did you go next?"

More silence. The Voice was becoming impatient and stuck him several more times. Sweat broke out in Illya’s brow.

"I can beat it out of you...or you can answer me."

"New York." Illya breaths were coming in short huffs. The pain was bringing back more memories of this room.

_The glass walls provided visual access to whoever passed. The victim inside was a veritable specimen, tied down at the wrists and ankles, and anyone who cared to observe its behaviors need merely peer through the window. A rack, barely visible over the victim’s left shoulder, contained straps, whips and rods. The spectators were at liberty to use them on the specimen at whim. The victim never saw his tormentors enter or leave the room, but after they came in, their first stop was always the rack, as was their last._

Illya looked over his left shoulder. The rack was still there, housing the same implements. He shut his eyes, hoping that would make the visions go away. Fear began overtaking him and he was finding it difficult to maintain his composure.

"Where did you stay in New York?"

"I...I..."

Two more blows.

"Answer me!"

Sweat began rolling down Illya’s face. The Voice noticed the beating was beginning to take effect. He struck Kuryakin several more times before he was answered.

"I stayed in Napoleon’s apartment."

The Voice stepped back, crossing his arms over his chest. "Aah good, now we’re getting somewhere. Where is Napoleon’s apartment?"

"In New York." Illya anticipated the following blows.

"I don’t need a smart-assed answer, Illya!" his voice boomed. "Now, where in New York does he live?"

"In a tall building."

"What’s the address?"

"I don’t know."

The Voice struck he several more times. The level of pain was becoming intolerable. Illya was afraid his gasps would turn into sobs, or that he would break down altogether and tell him what he wanted to know.

"You stayed in a man’s apartment for a long time and you don’t even know the address?"

"I...I...can’t read."

The Voice sighed.

"Did he take you to UNCLE?"

"No," Illya said softly.

"You’re lying, Illya!" The Voice shouted. Two, three, four more hits.

Illya gritted his teeth, wincing with the pain. "I never met his relatives."

The Voice was beginning to doubt that Illya had any information at all.

"Tell me about that beautiful blonde woman you were with in New York."

"I met her in New York."

"I assumed that. How do you know her?"

"I really don’t know her well. We began talking and she told me she was on her way to the airport hotel."

"And then what?"

"I asked her if she wanted some company. She said ’yes’, so I went."

"Where was Napoleon?"

"My master had taken a woman to bed with him."

The Voice snickered.

"So, exactly where did you and this lovely blonde go."

"To her hotel room." Illya smiled a little as he recalled an image of him lying next to Gretchen.

"What was her name?"

"Janice."

"Why do you think Napoleon bought you?" The Voice asked suddenly.

"I don’t know."

"Did you honestly think a rich American playboy would need someone like you?"

Illya shrugged.

"What did he have you do for him?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing?" The Voice echoed. "He bought you to live off his good graces?"

Another shrug.

"I’ll tell you why he bought you, Illya. You were an investment. He paid almost nothing for you. Treated your injuries, fattened you up and sold you for a tidy profit."

Illya was silent, afraid to believe what the man was saying.

"Do you think I’m lying to you?"

Another shrug.

"How the hell do you think I got you here. That blonde woman you shacked up with? Napoleon arranged all that, including the point where my men took you at the airport. He’s no fool. Your 'Master'walked away with a pocketful of money."

"He owned me," Illya responded matter-of-factly. "He could sell me."

Eventually, The Voice realized was getting nowhere with Illya, and after several more neutrally answered questions, left the room.

_The desert sun beat down on him relentlessly. There was no respite; no shade, no water. Illya was not even able to raise his arm to shield his eyes. He was paralyzed, incapable of moving at all. Once in a while, a man would emerge from nowhere and reposition him, allowing the sun to bake another part of his body. The first day seemed endless. The overwhelming feeling of despair increased as they days passed. The agent’s fortitude and stamina decreased. It was impossible for him to sleep, during the day or night. If he was lucky, late in the day...many hours after being brought outside to this veritable inferno, he would doze off just a little._

Illya opened his eyes startled. He must have fallen asleep...somehow, despite his shivering and the pain. He tugged at the bindings which tethered him to the table. They were still imprisoning him.

_Heat radiated from his body. From sunrise until the the sun had practically set below the horizon, Illya remained outside, paralyzed. Day by day, his skin tanned and acclimated to the desert sun. To his amazement, his skin never burned and his body did not dehydrate. Days have gone by with absolutely nothing to eat or drink. The hunger persisted. His stomach gnawed. And he was not even able to tuck his legs against his chest to assuage the pain. After several days, he’d lost count, Illya accepted the realization that no respite was in sight._

_At the end of the day an inert Illya was dragged through an opening in a sand dune to a brightly lit corridor. Two men carelessly hoisted him on to the cold metal table from which held him the night before. For a very short while, he knew the table’s chill would be a relief, cooling him. After that, the cold would become unbearable. Almost as unbearable as the scorching heat._

The Voice returned several hours later. Illya was hungry, scared, and cold. He began asking his prisoner the same questions all over again. Illya gave him the same answers. In frustration, the abuse continued. When he once again realized he was unable to extract the answers he wanted, The Voice left.

Illya’s heart was pounding inside his chest. His body ached more than before. He was afraid he would start to weaken and be enslaved once more. How could this happen? Napoleon had taken him away from the desert. New York was an entirely different world. This part of his existence was behind him...or so he thought. Doubts began to haunt him. Did Napoleon really take care of him only to sell him later? Get a higher price than what he paid? Was it a business arrangement? Was the friendship a farce? With no distractions, it was difficult pushing these thoughts out of his mind.

 _Focus on the room,_ he told himself. _Why was it tormenting me in my dreams?_

Illya looked around again. The windows, the rack, lights, equipment. His table...the same table he lay on now. The same pain, the same hunger, all returning. Returning.

_The metal table was wheeled through an interior door into large tiled bathroom which included a commode, sink, and a shower stall. The two men rolled Illya and the metal table as near to the stall as possible. One man reached inside and grasped the removable shower head on a flexible hose. He turned on the cold water and let it run over Illya’s overheated body, removing the caked-on sand which clung to his sweat. The cold water hitting his fevered skin was as painful as the beatings he routinely received._

_Illya’s only reaction was labored breathing and guttural grunts from his throat. His body was still paralyzed and he was unable to speak. Fair game for the two men who took obvious pleasure in bathing their prisoner with icy water. These are the same two men who entered the glass enclosed cell and beat him when the urge struck._

Some of the pieces were falling in place. The fragments were beginning to solidify but at the moment, he was helpless to do anything about it. He had questions...questions that either Napoleon or Yossi could probably answer. Napoleon...the doubts began rising again. Illya tried shaking them off, but The Voice sounded so believable...

Someone entered the room. Illya looked around. The Voice again, carrying a thick woolen blanket. As he neared the metal table, the blanket was unfurled and placed over Illya.

"Thank you," Illya said softly, still shuddering.

"Don’t thank me. I’m merely protecting my investment."

_No one bothered to tie him down initially. The paralysis persisted, and movement would not return to his limbs for several hours. An IV line was placed in one of his arms nightly, infusing his body with fluids and stimulants._

_Throughout the night, the room remained brightly lit, stimulating his senses even more. There was no escape from the cold, and the pain would only subside slightly if he was left alone. People in labcoats gathered at the windows watching him, observing his beatings passively as if they were a mundane daily experience._

_And there was no escape through sleep. The stimulants kept his nerves on edge, all night and well into the day. By the time they wore off, more were infused._

_Even closing his eyes and trying relax was useless. They were wearing him down._

_Finally, a little movement in his fingers. Then the wrists and arms, feet and legs. His Thrush captors allowed him to regain a small amount of movement before returning to his glass cell and securing him face down once more._

_Shortly before sunrise, Vicktor Schwenk would arrive._

_"Are you ready yet?" he would ask._

_Illya refused to answer, indicating that he had not yet given in._

_Schwenk reached under the table and released a switch, lowering the section under Illya’s head on an angle, forcing his chin down. This exposed the nape of his neck with little effort. Vicktor held back the hair on his neck and injected a paralysis drug into his spinal cord._

_"That’s a good boy," he cooed condescendingly, pleased that Illya was able to shift his body after the injection. "You stayed nice and still. It won’t be permanent this time."_

_Within seconds, he was completely still. Paralyzed. The start of a new day._

The blanket warmed Illya sufficiently to get a few hours sleep. He was awaken by the sound of The Voice and several other people entering the room. Without a word between them, they drew back the blanket from his left ankle and secured a loose fitting metal band around it. One of the men connected wires and tested their efficiency on a large computer. A second man held a small control box, the size of a deck of cards. When the wire man finished, the control man moved a lever slightly. A shock coursed through Illya’s left leg, causing him to cry out.

The Voice sat down facing Illya.

"That, Illya," he started, pointing to the ankle band, "will keep you where we can find you. We can track your whereabouts. Your master will have this box. If you travel more than half a kilometer away from this box, a signal will automatically send that awful shock up your leg. Should you decide to persist and go further, a razor sharp blade hidden in the band will begin to cut away at your ankle, eventually crippling you." The Voice paused, dramatically holding up the box. "There is a lever that your master can use to send a shock if you need to be subdued." He demonstrated by moving the lever slightly to the left. Illya gritted his teeth, sucking in air with the pain.

"As long as it doesn’t go into the ’red zone’..." The Voice held the box closer to Illya, indicating where the red zone actually was, "...you’re safe. If it gets pushed into the zone, the further the lever goes, the deeper the blade cuts."

Illya looked at him blankly.

"Do you understand me?"

The blond agent looked down and nodded.

"Oh, and don’t try removing the band yourself. If it gets altered in any way, the blade automatically springs out and you lose all use of your foot. It really gets a little messy."

The Voice removed a pre-filled hypodermic needle from the breast pocket of his labcoat. After removing the protective cap, he wordlessly injected the milky-white contents of it into Illya’s left biceps. _Milky-white ...Vicktor Schwenk had a syringe filled..._

_A truck pulled up to the dirty gray tent. The driver got out, walked around the back and dropped the tailgate. In the early light of dawn, he dragged an immobile object off the flatbed and carelessly dropped it in the sand. The parcel stirred slightly upon impact. The owner of the tent came out and and handed the driver money rolled up in a rubber band. The driver handed him a small metal box. The exchange completed, the driver returned to the truck and drove away._

_The owner placed the box in his pants pocket and walked over to the delivered parcel, squatting down next to it. His re-acquired purchase was slowly regaining consciousness. As the sky lightened, he got a better look at the parcel - his slave. He nodded his head in approval upon seeing this man’s stature. Stronger, heartier than before._

_Consciousness came slowly, too slowly. The owner was becoming impatient and resorted to slapping the slave’s face to rouse him. The only reply was several quiet moans. More strikes. Eventually, the pain sent signals for the slave’s body to wake._

_His eyes slowly opened; blue eyes looked up and recognized the surroundings. Nasir, the man towering over him, was talking - he could see the lips moving, but he could make no sense of what was being said. Words finally began to fade in and out. The man began waving his arms and kicking him. Through dimmed senses, the pain began to peak. He slowly rolled into a fetal ball for protection._

_Illya felt himself being dragged to his feet. The desert swirled around him in slow motion. Weakened legs refused to support him. He began to fall, but before reaching the ground, harsh arms stood him up once more. Unable to stand on his own, he wildly grasped at this Nasir’s clothing, hoping not to fall again._

_Nasir removed a riding crop from the waistband of his trousers and warded off the grasps by striking the slave. Still confused, Illya backed away after the first initial blows, but the owner immediately grabbed him by the arm and continued hitting him. Finally, an adrenaline surge gave Illya the strength to grab Nasir’s arm as it was raised to strike, and deftly pin it behind his back. The blond agent wrapped his free arm around Nasir’s neck and threateningly increased the pressure._

_Caught off guard by Illya’s aggression, Nasir struggled to think clearly. The box. He fumbled in his pocket with his free hand, finally locating the lever. Once the switch was moved slightly to the left, pain seared through Illya’s leg, forcing him to release the grip on his master. Kuryakin fell to the ground grasping at his ankle, trying not to cry out. Nasir continued the punishment while his slave on the ground, writhing in pain from the shocks which still coursed through his leg._

_When Nasir was satisfied that Illya had been subdued, he turned off the current and ordered his slave to stand up. The residual effects of the shocks left Illya weak and in a cold sweat, gasping for breath._

_"I...can’t..." he began, trying to garner his strength. "Please, give me a moment."_

_Impatiently, Nasir grabbed him by the shirt collar and hair, forcing him to his feet._

_"Get to work!" he ordered, then went into his tent saying no more._

Unfortunately, Illya knew the routine all too well. The work tent was piled with unpolished copperware. The rags and polish were laying about, unused for several days. The last time he stood in that tent was the night he was shot, the night before being sold at the auction, the night before Napoleon paid for his freedom. His life had changed for the better the following day; for the first time, he tasted freedom. Now he was once again relegated to polishing copper for an abusive master.

Thoughts of Gretchen floated through his mind, bringing an occasional smile to his face. His eyes closed. He could almost feel her body next to him, smell her, touch her, love her.

The dreadful reality of being back in Nasir’s control brought him to his senses. The hunger pangs, working long hours at a thankless task, the fear of being beaten. And now, the electronic ankle band deterred virtually any aggression. It would only be a matter of time before he weakened like before, succumbing fully to Nasir’s abuse. Illya continued polishing the copper.

* * * * *

Much later in the day, a car drove up to the tent. Illya could hear doors open, then the familiar rattle and clamor of metal hitting metal. Muhammed entered the tent carrying his wares. He stopped in his tracks when he saw Illya, and after putting the copper on the table, came over and greeted him with his comfortable bear hug.

"What in the world are you doing back here?" he whispered, looking Illya over carefully.

"I don’t know. I was kidnapped," Kuryakin whispered back. He looked around, hoping that Nasir wasn’t within earshot.

"Kidnapped? From where?"

" America. Napoleon took me to New York."

"New York? Did you see my daughter?"

Illya chuckled and smiled. "I don’t know...New York is very large."

"Are you doing all right?"

The smile left Illya’s face and he somberly shrugged. "I now have ’this’ on my leg." He lifted his foot on to the table, showing Muhammed the ankle band. "Nasir has a control box that can send shock currents through my leg. It’s very painful."

Muhammed looked closely at it.

"I can take that off for you," he offered.

"No...that would release a sharp blade and cut my ankle," Illya signed, lowering his foot to the floor. He paused a moment. "Let me give you a hand with your copper."

The two men left the tent to retrieve more unpolished copperware. After they finished, Muhammed stopped into Nasir’s tent to talk awhile. It was extremely lonely for Nasir since Irana left several weeks back. She was disgusted with her husband, so she took a lover of her own and moved in with him. Nasir was devastated. How dare she!

Muhammed finally said his farewells and got behind the wheel of his car. The old Mercedes coughed and sputtered as he turned the ignition key, refusing to start. He raised the hood and checked inside, prodding and poking at the hoses, dipsticks and anything else which looked like it could be magically fixed.

Illya heard the noise and came outside. Muhammed was mumbling about how he wished he had his old truck back...at least that one he could fix...but this newfangled car...

"Have you checked the air filter?" Illya asked as he walked towards the car.

"Air filter? Why?"

"The sand gets inside and clogs it up. May I...?" It took only a few seconds for Illya to unscrew the lid and remove the air filter. He tapped it several times against the car’s bumper, releasing the impacted sand. The filter and lid were replaced, then Illya got behind the wheel of the car to start it up. The motor hummed, turning over immediately.

Illya looked around the car before getting out. It was large and extremely comfortable. He looked between the seats and noticed a phone. Muhammed walked around to the driver’s side door, thanking Illya for his help. The blond agent looked around, making sure Nasir was nowhere in sight before quietly asking Muhammed if he could call his "Uncle."

Still afraid Nasir would notice, Illya crawled into the passenger’s seat and crouched down before dialing UNCLE’s local dispatch phone number. Within seconds, a feminine voice responded, and after Illya identified himself, she immediately began a trace on the phone call while patching him through to Mr. Waverly.

"I can’t talk very long, Mr. Waverly," he whispered into the phone receiver. "I was kidnapped and brought back to Nasir."

"Do you know your location?"

"No."

"How long have you been there?"

"Since this morning."

"Mr. Kuryakin, you were abducted three days ago. Where did they take you?"

"I think to your enemy’s installation in the desert. I’m not completely sure." Illya crouched down further.

Nasir had come out of the tent, looking for him. Muhammed intervened, saying that Illya was fixing something on the car.

"We’re tracing your phone call. Can you stay on another minute?"

"I hope so. Nasir seems to be looking for me. Can you send someone to get me out of here?"

"Yes, once we know your exact location."

"They placed a band around my ankle. And they told me they could monitor my movements from their headquarters. Maybe you could find out their location from it."

"Hold on, Mr. Kuryakin...wait, we almost have it. Don’t hang up the phone."

"Hurry please. Nasir is coming over."

Mr. Waverly heard the receiver hit something hard.

"Illya?"

No response.

"Illya?"

Still no response, but the receiver was active. What Mr. Waverly heard next was a raspy, irate voice shrieking in Arabic, then the sharp cracks of flesh being struck as Nasir pulled Illya from the car. Then the engine purring as the vehicle drove away.

"Is that you. Uncle Waverly?" a deep jovial voice asked.

"Yes it is. And to whom am I speaking?"

"I am Muhammed, Nasir’s brother in law. Are you going to send your nephew to fetch Illya?"

"My nephew?"

"Napoleon, of course. Aah, you must have many nephews."

"Yes, Muhammed. I come from a rather large family." The location of the phone was finally determined.

Illya watched Muhammed drive away. The big man saved his hide more than once. His feeling of hopelessness lifted after talking to Alexander Waverly. It was only a matter of time until he was rescued.

It was getting late. As usual, Nasir chained his slave to the iron post.

"Is this really necessary?" Illya asked, motioning towards his ankle.

Nasir struck him across the face and walked away.

The mat and thin blanket remained as remnants from his past. Illya laid down on the mat and rolled on to his side, covering himself the best he could. The air was getting chillier and the old blanket did little to keep him warm. As he settled in, the pain from his recent beatings and lack of food became more prevalent. He desperately needed sleep and longed for a real bed, one that was warm and comfortable. The last one he shared with Gretchen. A short while later, fatigue overrode his discomfort and he slept.


	9. Chapter 9

A kick in the side roused Illya from his slumber. The all too familiar image of the drunken Nasir standing over him brought Illya to his senses even quicker.

"Take off your clothes!" Nasir demanded.

Illya obediently sat up and began unbuttoning his shirt. He stopped midway down the row, smiled and looked up.

"I have a better idea," he said softly, motioning for Nasir to lay down next to him. "Let me show you a few tricks my new master taught me."

Nasir was hesitant at first, but after realizing he had the control box to protect himself, decided to indulge himself in Illya’s suggestion.

He sat next to Illya, who seductively began unbuttoning his master’s shirt, coaxing him to lay down by the time the last button was unfastened. Illya opened the shirt all the way, and began massaging Nasir’s chest. In the process, the chain attached to Illya’s wrist got in the way, interfering with foreplay.

"Sorry," Illya apologized. "I’ll try to keep it out of the way."

Illya next persuaded Nasir to roll over on his stomach to have his back rubbed. The chain accidentally tangled itself between Kuryakin’s wrist and the master’s torso, eventually being trapped under Nasir’s body. Illya reached his free hand under Nasir’s waistband and tried to bring his shacked one as well, causing the chain to drag below Nasir’s chest.

"What the hell are you doing?" Nasir hissed.

"I’m trying to get you excited."

"The damn chain keeps getting in the way!"

"Sorry."

After several more annoying interferences, Nasir finally released the shackle from Illya’s wrist.

"Aah, that’s better," Illya cooed, still massaging Nasir’s back.

When Nasir had relaxed sufficiently, Illya sprang into action. He grabbed the hair on the back of Nasir’s head and pushed his face into the sand while simultaneously pinning his left arm behind his back.

"Before I was brought back here, I spent several days in bed with the most beautiful woman in the world. If you think I’m going to let you touch me again, you’re out of your mind!" Illya hissed in his ear, pushing his head further down in the sand.

Illya secured Nasir’s pinned arm with his knee, then reached inside his master’s pocket to snatch the control box. Despite his drunkenness, Nasir was surprisingly alert. They wrestled for control of the box. The darkness obscured visibility, making it even more difficult for the blond agent to snatch it. Nasir’s inebriated state did hampered his ability to keep it in his possession, so Illya was finally able to wrest it from his grip. Immediately, Nasir fought back, and the box flipped out of both their grips and landed in the sand several feet away. In unison, they began crawling to the box, each pulling the other out of the way.

In a desperate final attempt, Illya lunged on top of Nasir, pinning him to the ground. Nasir’s fingers stretched within inches of the box. He grunted as he tried to extend his reach, eventually grasping the prize. Illya tried pulling the arm closer, but Nasir got to the control lever with his fingertips and began sliding it to the left.

It started with a small shock traveling up and down Illya’s leg. He tried to override the pain as he continued to wrestle for the controls. The lever moved a little more, and the shock’s intensity increased. After several seconds the shocks became so intense Illya had to let go of his prey. He rolled away, bringing his knee to his chest, writhing in pain, knowing what would happen next if Nasir didn’t stop.

Headlights began to appear in the distance. As they approached, the steady pounding of helicopter blades broke the desert silence. Within seconds, the vehicles and chopper surrounded Nasir’s tent, unloading the UNCLE agents who came to Illya’s rescue.

"What’s wrong?" a familiar voice asked.

Illya looked up. Napoleon was squatting down beside him.

"Get the box!" Illya gasped breathlessly. He shot a glance to Nasir, who was already subdued by UNCLE security agents. But he still had the box.

Solo was unable to understand Illya’s request.

"Get the..." was all Kuryakin could repeat before he felt the blade of the ankle band make contact with his skin. He gritted his teeth before crying out in pain as blood began to ooze down his foot.

In a flash, Kuryakin jumped to his feet and lunged at Nasir once more, finally grabbing the remote control himself. He immediately moved the lever to the right, taking it out of the red zone and reversing the blade.

Panting heavily, Illya fell to the ground once more and rolled on his side, trying to regain his composure. Two men rushed over to him, Yossi Shapiro and an UNCLE technician, who began to remove the band.

"No, don’t!" Illya shouted, pulling his leg out of harm’s way. "If you tamper with it, the blade will automatically drop."

The technician thought for a few seconds as he examined the band, then pulled a few short lengths of wire from one of his many pockets. He polled his fellow agents to see how many were carrying knives. Everyone had one...or two. After selecting four of the smallest ones available, he slipped them between the band and Illya’s ankle at equal intervals. If the blade released, the knives would prevent it from cutting into his flesh. Carefully, very carefully, the technician unscrewed key areas, exposing its wires. He bridged them by connecting the filaments with longer lengths of wire, leaving the signal intact. A moment later, he found the release screw and the ankle band popped open.

The band was carefully removed from Illya’s leg, leaving the bridging wire and signal undisturbed. The technician brought it to the helicopter and wired it to his own on-board tracking equipment. Meanwhile, Dr. Shapiro cleaned the ankle wound while Napoleon asked Illya about the "installation" he mentioned to Mr. Waverly.

"If you were to go back there, would you know your way around?" Solo asked. He reached into his knapsack while he spoke, bringing out a cheese sandwich and a large bottle of orange juice for Illya.

"I think so." Illya winced as the astringent antiseptic stung his wound. "Somehow, I think I was there before, but I can’t ..." He winced again. "...remember everything about it." He began devouring the sandwich and juice.

"Do you know where they kept the files?"

"Files?"

"Yes. Vicktor Schwenk was compulsive about his paperwork."

Illya shrugged, explaining that the only areas he could identify were the ones he experienced.

Yossi finished wrapping the ankle with clean gauze.

"How are you feeling?" the doctor asked, starting to poke and prod Illya.

The blond agent held his hands up, indicating that he was well.

The technician ran over, excited that the satrap location had been found via Illya’s ankle band. All the agents caucused for a few moments and got their game plan. Napoleon turned to his friend.

"Are you up for a little excitement?"

The UNCLE vehicles crossed the desert under the blanket of darkness, keeping out of Thrush’s radar system’s detection. They neared the entrance on foot, waiting for the opportunity to strike. Approximately 1:30 am, 20 minutes after their arrival, the side of a sand dune slid open. Three men in Thrush uniforms left the confines of their nest to smoke cigarettes. Three muffled "pops" sounded and the guards fell to the ground. A louder "poof" sounded simultaneously, sending a small missile into the opening. The UNCLE agents rushed the closing door and placed an iron brace at its base. preventing it from closing entirely. After donning gas masks, they ran into the dune, guns drawn, ready to invade Thrush’s headquarters.

Once it was deemed safe, the gas masks were removed and stashed in backpacks. Sirens blared and lights flashed. Illya froze momentarily, but Napoleon grasped his arm and pulled him along, motioning for him to lead the way. He looked around, uncertain which way to turn. For several seconds he closed his eyes, mentally reviewing the route, then ran to his left. The other agents followed.

Napoleon heard running boot steps. Immediately, he stopped and flattened Illya’s body against the wall, protecting it with his own as he and the other UNCLE agents downed the oncoming Thrush soldiers. Solo made a quick count of fourteen enemy agents disabled. They moved further into the building, Illya leading the way.

Before they could enter the next hallway, an iron grate dropped, blocking their path. Within seconds, two agents wrapped key parts of the grating with plastic explosives and planted the charges. The entire group moved backwards several feet and huddled, covering their faces as the explosives were detonated, finally leaving a large hole on the grate.

They ran through, making it to the glass cell after turning four more corridors. The UNCLE entourage rushed inside, expertly going through the room with a fine toothed comb.

Illya stopped outside. From the glass walls he could see the metal table which haunted his dreams. The table which restrained him, held him down while being repeatedly beaten and questioned not too many hours before. The rack against the wall. The implements which caused his pain. The IV lines. The metal table. His head turned away slightly, eyes closed.

Napoleon understood his anxiety. He knew only marginal details of Illya’s treatment while being held prisoner, but knew the fear his friend felt confronting these demons once more.

"Would you rather wait out here?" Solo quietly asked.

Illya opened his eyes and shook his head. "No."

They scoured the room but came up empty handed. No files were housed in the glass cell. Illya looked around, unsure where the office might have been. He looked at the table, then slowly walked over to it. Breathing became difficult as he neared it. Leather thongs which bound his wrists and ankles hung freely. The table was still cold, and when he laid his hands on its surface, an icy chill went through his entire body. 

Without giving it any more consideration, he jumped up on the surface and laid down in his usual position, arms and legs akimbo. He slowly turned his head from side to side, reliving his field of vision from that location. He studied every inch visible. The rack. Visible over his left shoulder if he strained far enough. He never saw his interrogators enter or leave, his first sighting of them was always at the rack.

Illya slid off the table and walked over to the rack, looking just to the left of it, the area of out his range of vision from the table. He motioned for Napoleon and the other agents to come over.

"They came into the room from somewhere around here," he said while trying to find an opening.

The other agents joined him until one found the hidden release button, disguised as a decorative wooden nub. A secret door opened, leading the way to an inner office. More sirens sounded but no one came to its call. Napoleon considered it usual that the satrap was so lightly staffed. He shrugged off his concerns and tended to the business at hand, searching for Schwenk’s research files. Meanwhile, several UNCLE agents stayed in the glass cell keeping watch.

Several small file cabinets were loaded to the brim with information. Dr. Shapiro scanned them briefly looking for ones containing medical data. He thumbed through stacks of them at a time, selecting the ones of importance and placing them in his backpack.

His next target was Schwenk’s desk. Locked, of course. A small application of explosives removed the lock and the drawers opened easily. Several rolls of microfilm were tucked behind hanging files. Yossi took them as well.

Napoleon scanned the files as well, selecting ones of general interest to UNCLE. A bookcase behind the desk shelved more files. Solo looked through them and found medical information scattered throughout. He motioned for Yossi to go through them and take what he needed.

The break-in was done with great efficiency, and within ten minutes they were finished and ready to leave. They left the office and returned to the glass cell, fully expecting to exit its doors and leave. Thrush put up very little resistance, making their task almost too easy.

The doors refused to open. Solo aimed his gun at the lock and fired, but the door remained locked. Plastic explosives were placed at its lock and hinges and then detonated. Still, the door would not open.

A man’s face appeared from the other side of the glass, becoming visible as he walked into the light. Illya knew him as "The Voice." Napoleon recognized him immediately.

"So they transferred you to this godforsaken place, Gianni. What happened? Fall out of grace with Thrush?" Solo arrogantly asked.

"With your help, of course, Mr. Solo."

Napoleon smiled. "It wasn’t hard. You were a loser from the beginning. I only made your superiors aware of it earlier than you expected. You should be lucky they didn’t execute you for your mistakes."

"I have friends in high places, Napoleon. But that’s a moot point in your situation, since I plan to kill all of you."

Illya looked around at the UNCLE agents, shaking his head, then looking through the glass at Gianni.

"A little upset, Illya?" The Voice mused. "If you lie down with dogs you’ll get fleas."

The blond agent’s breathing increased. "Fleas?"

Gianni Vito shot a glance at Solo. "You realize, of course, I selected ’him’," the man through the glass started, indicating Kuryakin, "because of you, Napoleon. I assume you looked rather...hmmm...inept, shall we say, after we abducted him."

"It was part of the game, Gianni. You know that. Illya knew the risks as well," Napoleon replied in his own defense. Illya’s gaze turned towards him, not understanding what he meant. He may never know now, Solo thought.

"The game was rigged a bit. But that’s water under the bridge." Gianni paused a moment, turning towards Illya. He crooked his finger, motioning for Illya to come closer to the door. "You’re practically an innocent in all this, Illya. You can come with me. Good night, gentlemen. Oh...don’t worry about the files you’ve taken. Once you’re dead, I’ll remove them from your corpses. Many of them are useless, some are quite valuable. Besides," Gianni continued, holding up one final file, "the information is all worthless without this."

Illya wrapped his arms around himself, hoping his cocoon would protect him. His eyes cast downward and he shuddered. As the door opened, several UNCLE agents quickly moved forward to rush Gianni. Immediately, he drew his gun and opened fire, striking two of the agents, one fatally. In the confusion, Illya grabbed the his captor’s wrist, raising the gun’s aim the ceiling and pulled the man inside. Napoleon and several other agents came to his assistance and subdued Gianni while Illya tried to prevent the door from closing, locking them in once more.

The aperture’s span decreased by the second. Illya placed his body against the closing door, but the force was too strong for him.

"Illya...here!" Yossi called, sliding a wooden chair across the room. Illya jammed it in the doorway seconds before the opening would have been too small to accommodate it. Gears grunted and ground as the chair held its resistance.

Napoleon grabbed the last file from Gianni’s and they headed towards the door to exit. The door still strained against the chair until the wood relented and split apart. Before the UNCLE agents could make it out of the glass cell, the door had once again locked.

A hissing sound escaped from the air vents. The UNCLE agents put on their gas masks. For the few seconds it took to protect themselves, their eyes and nasal passages felt the ravages of the gas which was introduced into the room.

The temperature within the room began to drop rapidly. Their lightweight clothing would soon prove to be inadequate to keep them warm. They all began moving around, looking for another escape route.

Illya followed his senses and found the entrance to the tile bathroom, motioning for the others to follow. One of the larger agents lifted his dead comrade over his shoulder, carrying him behind the rest of the group. Yossi aided the wounded man who sustained a graze wound to the shoulder. Two other UNCLE agents escorted a handcuffed Gianni Vito.

The gas was fouling the bathroom as well. They ran through the shower area to the door from which Illya entered after roasting in the sun all day. This was locked as well, but proved not to be as impassable as the other with their plastic explosives.

They ran towards the building’s exit, guns ready. No one else offered resistance. Before leaving, an incendiary device was placed in the hallway and later detonated from a safe distance outside the installation. The ground trembled as the device exploded, causing a thick cloud of black smoke to billow from the former installation’s entrance.

It was nearly 5 am when they returned to headquarters. The dead UNCLE agent, Simon Roberts, was taken to the morgue until arrangements for his burial could be made. Michael Schilling, wounded in action, was immediately treated by Dr. Shapiro and sent home for a few days’ rest. Gianni Vito was taken to the bowels of UNCLE’s headquarters and interrogated.

All the files were left in Yossi’s office so he and Napoleon could go through them. Illya was in dire need of a shower, food, and sleep...in that order. Napoleon made arrangements for food to be delivered. Yossi offered Illya the use of the shower adjacent to his own office.

The stream of warm water washed away the past several days. After bathing himself, he stood under the shower head and let the water simply run over him, losing track of time. As he unwound, the pain in his back became more prevalent. A knock on the door brought him back to the present.

The door opened slightly. "Are you all right in there?" Yossi asked.

"Yes...very well. The water is relaxing."

"Dinner...breakfast...whatever...has arrived."

Illya turned off the shower and blotted the remaining water with soft, thirsty towels. Even the terry cloth smelled good to him. He looked around. The only clothing available were the dirty ones he just piled on the floor. He decided to simply wear the towel he had around his waist and the second one now around his shoulders.

"Do you have any aspirin?" Illya asked as he entered Yossi’s office. Napoleon and Yossi had begun eating.

"You have a headache?" Yossi asked.

"No, it’s my back," he replied. Illya exposed a few of his broad, purple welts behind his left arm.

Yossi sprang up and removed the entire towel from his shoulders.

"Aspirin won’t do much for these," Yossi said, scanning the wounds, touching them lightly. Illya flinched.

"Did Nasir inflict those?" Napoleon asked.

"No. Gianni did."

"You told me you nothing was wrong with you," Yossi bellowed.

"There wasn’t much you can do for these," Illya quietly stated.

"Let me take a look," Yossi offered, guiding Illya into the infirmary, but the blond agent resisted.

"At least let me eat first. My hunger outweighs my discomfort."

Yossi agreed, Illya replaced the towel over his shoulders for warmth and sat down to eat.

It was breakfast. Eggs, cereal, juice, fruit. Filling, but not heavy.

"So...Illya," Solo started casually. "...what happened at the airport?"

Illya spoke between mouthfuls. "Gretchen and I said goodbye and when I turned to get back in the cab, I bumped into another woman. For some reason a security guard came over and handcuffed me. Then he put me in a van. The next thing I knew I was back in the glass cell." He paused. "Who is this Gianni, anyway? He seems to know you."

"We’re old adversaries. Several years ago we clashed and he proved himself to be ineffective. I thought for sure that Thrush would have removed him from their organization...one way or the other."

"Thrush?"

"Yes. They’re one of our primary enemies. Basically, their goal is world domination and doing evil. We try to stop them." Napoleon stopped talking to take another bite of food while deciding how to word his next question. "Did Gianni ask you for information while he was beating you?"

Illya nodded, taking in another mouthful of cereal.

"...and???" Napoleon asked, eyebrows raised. If it was an interrogation, Solo was concerned that UNCLE’s security may have been compromised. He wanted to know exactly what transpired, but did not want to appear so alarmed that he upset Illya.

While eating, Kuryakin casually gave them a detailed account of what was said in the glass room. Considering the intensity of the interrogation, the blond agent was not overly distraught. Napoleon and Yossi were both relieved at Illya’s resourcefulness. When Gianni asked leading questions where he obviously knew the answer, Illya played along and gave him the reply he wanted to hear. When his captor fished for information, Illya feigned stupidity and answered with a plausibly ignorant response. Even during repeated interrogations with Gianni, he never caved in or relented, and finally convinced his captor that he had nothing to offer.

At the end of the meal, Yossi asked his guests if they would like anything else. Illya opened his mouth to speak, but before he could get out the words, Napoleon pointed to him and said: "Ice Cream."

Illya was the only one with room left in his belly, so he downed the single bowl of chocolate ice cream by himself. When he finished, Yossi took him into the infirmary to look over the welts. Solo stayed in the office, going over the files.

* * * * *

"This really isn’t necessary," Illya protested as he lay face down on the examining table. He paused and smiled. "I know...’Where did I get my medical degree?’ and ’Don’t steal your thunder’."

"Are you in much pain?" Yossi asked as he began pressing the tender areas on Illya’s shoulders.

"I wasn’t so bad until you began poking your fingers all around." He squirmed on the table, trying to avoid Yossi’s touch.

"I can give you something to relieve the pain, you know."

"I’ll be fine. Just hurry up, please."

After several more minutes of major discomfort, Illya raised himself up on his elbows and turned towards the doctor. "It hurt less when Gianni beat me. What on earth are you doing back there?"

"Making sure the wounds are only superficial. Are you ready for the pain killer yet? This may take a while longer."

He lay back down and nodded, holding out his arm.


	10. Chapter 10

Illya slept peacefully. Deeper than he had in a while. Many hours later, he woke with an urge to relieve himself. He lay still as he opened his eyes, trying to figure out where he was. In the course of the past several days, he awakened in different places accompanied by various people. His eyes closed once more, trying to retrace his most recent circumstances. A smile came to his face and he sighed. The bed beneath his body felt comfortable and warm. He was able to move at will. It was quiet in the room illuminated with only a dim light. The only sound he heard was someone else’s soft, even breathing. Napoleon Solo.

He pulled the covers back and got out of bed. Sleep came so quickly and deeply that Illya never felt Yossi finishing his exam or changing him into pajamas or putting him to bed. After spending a short time in the bathroom, he walked down the hall to Yossi’s office.

Dr. Shapiro was gathering files and organizing them. Exhaustion took its toll. Dark circles formed under Yossi’s eyes and he moved with less exuberance than before. It took a moment before he realized Illya was standing in his doorway.

"How are you feeling?" Yossi asked. "Did the pain return?"

"No...I’m fine. I saw your light on. What time is it?"

Yossi checked his watch. "About 9 o’clock...pm that is. Napoleon called it quits about half an hour ago and I’ve about had it!"

"You’ve been up all this time?"

The doctor nodded wearily.

"Can I get you anything?" Illya offered.

Yossi smiled. "No thank you. I just need sleep." He opened a closet door, taking out a pillow and blanket. He placed the pillow at one end of his office couch then spread the blanket over the rest. He kicked off his shoes and lay down. "Could you be a _mensch_ and close the light on your way out?"

"Of course." Illya shut the light and returned to his own bed.

* * * * *

Napoleon was gone by the time Illya awoke the following morning. He looked at the clock. Practically 10:30...nearly 24 hours of well-needed sleep.

Yossi and Solo were already working over the files when Illya made his way to the infirmary office. Bagels with creamed cheese and danish pastries were scattered about with semi-consumed cups of coffee.

"Well look who finally woke up!" Yossi announced as he munched on his bagel.

"You must be hungry after that long hibernation. Here..." he handed Illya the telephone receiver. "...call the commissary and order what you’d like. They’ll deliver it if they know I have a patient here."

As Illya placed his order, he noticed an additional pile of opened folders sitting on the desk in front of an empty chair. After hanging up, the aroma of fresh coffee began floating his way. That’s fast! he thought. As the aroma intensified, the person carrying the coffee appeared. Illya froze momentarily in disbelief, then a broad smile covered his face. Gretchen Zeinreich. Dr. Gretchen Zeinreich.

She put her coffee down as Illya was coming over to greet her. Deep inside he wanted to sweep her up in his arms, but social decorum superseded and instead, he gave her a warm hug and kiss on the cheek.

"I...I can’t believe this. What are you doing here? I thought you went back to Germany."

"When you were kidnapped, Mr. Waverly ask me to return to Manhattan instead."

"Gretchen is helping us with the Thrush files, hoping to find an antidote for you," Napoleon chimed.

Illya looked him squarely in the eyes. "An antidote for me? Why?"

Yossi, Napoleon, and Gretchen passed glances between each other.

"Well, I guess one of us should tell him," Yossi suggested.

"Tell me what?" Illya was getting concerned.

Napoleon smiled. "Sit down, my friend..."

  
The trio finally told Illya about his past. At first, he was unable to fully comprehend the idea that his brain had been altered or that he had close friendships with these people in the past.

"According to the Thrush files, they extracted DNA from your blood and chemically altered its structure. Then they re-introduced it back into your body. It began repressing your memory and thought processes," Gretchen explained. "Napoleon requested I bring something with your original DNA on it. A toothbrush, for example. An original blood sample would have been ideal, but impossible to obtain. Since I was still in New York, he told me how to gain access to your apartment..."

A look of surprise covered Illya’s face.

"...yes, you do have your own apartment in New York..." Gretchen continued, "and pick up whatever I thought would be appropriate. I brought your toothbrush, and I found a blood-stained T-shirt from your clothing hamper. They should work just fine."

"So...what happens next?" Illya asked.

"Well, Illya, that’s where we’re a bit stumped," Yossi explained. "We know that we’ve got to create a serum from the DNA, something that we can put back into your body. Vicktor Schwenk left conflicting notes...on purpose I believe. He gives two scenarios. Obviously, one will work, the other won’t."

"Uh...what happens if you use the one that won’t work?" Illya asked suspiciously.

"We’re not too sure of that either. One possibility is that you will revert to total ignorance again, or impaired function...or it might kill you," Gretchen said. "We’re trying to put our heads together on it."

Illya’s food arrived. It was inconsequential since he’d no appetite at the moment.

"On a brighter note, we should be able to use the serum in about two days," Yossi added. "Give it some thought, Illya. You don’t have to do this if you’re not ready."

Kuryakin looked at Gretchen. "Did I know you before as well?"

She smiled and nodded.

"How well did we know each other?"

Gretchen laughed. "Very well, Illya. Very well."

* * * * *

Illya busied himself with writing a report on what transpired after his abduction, his first "official" paperwork in many months. Napoleon told him not to be concerned about the grammatical technicalities and spelling...just to get his thoughts and perceptions down on paper.

Meanwhile, Napoleon, Yossi and Gretchen continued to comb through the files, looking for similarities and contradictions in the method used to change Illya. Gianni and Vicktor were sly, making sure that their paper trail would confused even the most astute scholar if found.

One file in particular riveted Solo’s attention. It was a journal, containing observations and photos of Illya’s deterioration from the moment he was pinned down in the glass cell until he crumbled and succumbed to Schwenk’s brainwashing. His silence caught Yossi’s attention.

"What is it?" the doctor asked.

"Play by play details of the eight days it took to break him," Napoleon answered quietly, shaking his head. When he finished reading the notes, he passed them on to Yossi and then to Gretchen, then Napoleon picked himself up and went two floors below to Vicktor Schwenk’s holding cell.

Without a word, Solo nodded to the guard to open Schwenk’s cell. He entered the barred cubicle and grabbed the turncoat by the throat, lifting him and flattening him against a concrete wall. Several well placed punches to the midsection caused the doctor to double over, breathless.

"This is out of character for you, Napoleon," Vicktor gasped, trying to breath.

"Obviously there’s more to me than meets the eye," Solo hissed, striking him again. "I need to know about your files."

"What’s to know? You already have them."

Napoleon struck again. "You created two versions. Which one is real?"

Vicktor smiled and shrugged his shoulders. "Two versions?"

Solo spent less than half an hour with Vicktor Schwenk and left the cell empty handed; the doctor refused to divulge any information about his files. But Napoleon did benefit from it slightly - he had released some of his rage.

* * * * *

  
  
The trio made a little headway, selecting several viable strategies. By dinnertime, their brains were no longer functioning efficiently so they decided to call it a day.

Yossi went home to his wife and family. It had been quite a while since he’d seen the light of day. Napoleon made arrangements to once more wine and dine Leila, hopefully this time with fewer distractions. Gretchen was interested in spending more time with Illya. Solo told her that Illya would probably be in their apartment.

"Aah, so you’re my neighbors," she chuckled. "I hope you’re not the rowdy types who make all sorts of noise all night long."

Napoleon smiled wryly. "Only if we get lucky."

Gretchen and Napoleon walked to the apartment together. He needed to shower and shave before going out, and she simply wanted to spend another evening with Illya.

A radio was playing soft music when they entered the apartment. Illya was stretched out on the couch asleep. Solo disappeared into the bathroom, leaving Gretchen alone with the slumbering Illya. Rather than wake him, she sat on the floor, leaned against the sofa and closed her eyes. The music lulled her to sleep as well.

Before leaving, Napoleon woke her, saying that he may be back later with his lovely date...and would she like to join them. Gretchen declined, reading between the lines. They both knew what he was really saying: Napoleon wanted the apartment to himself tonight, and could she and Illya please go to hers instead. She bid Solo a good evening then shut her eyes, trying once again to fall asleep.

Too wide awake for dozing, Gretchen decided to get up and look for something to eat. As she stood, a warm hand took hold of hers, guiding her on to the couch. Illya’s sleepy blue eyes looked into hers as he stroked her face.

"I was hoping to see you tonight. How long have you been here?" he asked.

"Not very long. Napoleon came and went. He has an evening planned with someone named Leila. Do you know her?"

Illya shook his head. He sat up, yawning and rubbing his eyes. "I can’t believe I’m still tired."

"You’ve had a rough few days. Your body needs rest right now. Have you had dinner yet?"

"No. I may have even missed lunch."

"What do you say we pick up something, bring it back to my apartment and have a quiet dinner together?"

"Where’s your apartment?"

She pointed to the east wall of the living room. "Right next door. Care to join me?"

Illya felt at home in her apartment, a mirror image of the one he and Solo shared, except this one had a double bed rather than two twins in the bedroom.

After their meal, they finished off the last of their ice cream then relocated to Gretchen’s living room. Illya reclined on the sofa first, straightening one leg on the cushions and leaving his other foot on the floor. He guided Gretchen down in front of him, pulling her back so she reclined against him.

"I couldn’t stop thinking about you," he whispered in her ear.

The nearness of his warm breath made Gretchen’s skin tingle, causing her to shiver ever so slightly. Illya wrapped his arms tightly around her as he kissed the back of her neck.

"I’ve never met anyone like you before," Illya continued.

Gretchen chuckled. She turned around to see him face-to-face. "Actually, you have. Remember, I’m one of the people you knew in your other life." Then she maneuvered herself around completely so she lay prone upon him. Illya held her tightly as they kissed.

They both basked in the familiar warmth of their embrace, excited merely to be in each others’ arms once more. Illya closed his eyes as he savored the sensation of Gretchen’s warm body next to his, feeling he could never get enough of her. His entire being absorbed her scent, her feel, her essence. The simple act of stroking her golden hair aroused him, making him want more.

Gretchen wrapped her arms around his torso and was surprised to feel him flinch. When asked what was wrong, Illya sloughed off her concerns by insisting he was fine. She sat up and began unbuttoning his shirt.

"I know you better than you think," she purred softly, kissing him on the lips again. "Let me take a look."

"Really, Gretchen, this isn’t necessary. I’m fine."

Not heeding his words, Gretchen finished unfastening the row of buttons and gently lowered the shirt off his shoulders. She slid off the sofa and crouched down beside him, looking at his wounds.

"Who did this?" she asked as she lightly prodded several of the welts. Illya flinched again, moving away slightly.

"Gianni Vito. You really don’t need to go poking around back there. I went through all this with Yossi yesterday."

She sighed. "Well, you’re right. There isn’t much we can do about these." Gretchen sat back down on the sofa, taking his face in her hands and kissing him once more. "I promise to be gentle with you tonight."

* * * * *

It felt as though they had never left New York. Illya was amazed how natural it felt lying by Gretchen’s side, making love, caressing her, being with her. Their sex was stimulating and fulfilling. Each time their bodies joined felt more exciting than the previous. Gretchen melted with his touch, giving of herself totally. After their bodies peaked with orgasms, they would lay cradled in each others’ arms.

"What happened to us?" Illya asked as he stroked her hair.

"Just now?...or in the past?"

Illya rolled on to his side, propping himself up on one elbow. He pecked at her nose. "I know what happened just now," he chuckled. "Why didn’t we stay together in the past?"

"After the affair in Germany was completed, you went back to New York and I returned to our headquarters in Berlin."

"But why? Weren’t we this comfortable with each other before? Why didn’t I go to Berlin with you?...or...or...you come to New York with me?"

"It’s not that easy, Illya. We both work in a dangerous field. Attachments can be difficult, and even deadly. If Thrush knew we had strong feelings for one another, they could use that against us. Besides, knowing Mr. Waverly, he doesn’t condone fraternization between his operatives."

Illya laid back down, deep in thought.

"How is it that we met this time?" he finally asked.

Gretchen chuckled. "Napoleon arranged it. Mr. Waverly wanted to see if familiar people would help you regain your memory, and he asked him if you had any past loves that could reappear. Napoleon mentioned my name. Quite honestly, I think he caught Mr. Waverly off guard. You and I were very discreet. Only Napoleon knew of our relationship."

"Let me get this straight," Illya started, trying to fit the pieces together. "You were brought to New York on the assumption that I would still be attracted to you?"

"Yes."

"And Mr. Waverly who doesn’t condone fraternization helped arrange this?"

"Uh-huh"

"Was it awkward for you?"

"Not really. I was glad to see you again...whether you knew me or not. I have a very special place in my heart for you." Gretchen paused, sitting up. "I hope you don’t feel like we deceived you. It was done with the best intentions."

Illya pulled her back down next to him. "No, not at all," he said, kissing her lips.

His hand began gently caressing her body, feeling its contours. The waves of arousal began flowing through them both, slow and sensual at first, gradually ascending to a more intense pace.

Gretchen could feel his erect penis pressing against her abdomen as they clung together, kissing and drowning in each other’s passion. She coaxed Illya to lie on his back while her fingers delicately traced an imaginary line from his navel to the pubic hair above his genitals, almost driving him to the brink of orgasm. After playing with the soft tuft of hair, she slowly moved her hand to his swollen cock, holding its shaft and maneuvering ever-so-slowly to its crown. Illya began to moan, barely able to contain himself.

In an effortless move, Gretchen straddled Illya on her knees, bending forward to kiss his mouth. Illya’s hands roamed sensually over her back, fondling her ass. His hand slid between her straddled thighs, caressing the warm, moist spot he was about to penetrate. When he could no longer bear it, he held her hips, guiding her down on his erection. A low, guttural groan sounded from Gretchen’s throat as his swollen penis filled her completely, sending waves of excitement through her lithe body. She slowly raised and lowered her hips, forcing him deeper inside her with each thrust. Illya matched her rhythm, bring them both to a climax almost immediately.

Illya clung on to her as if for dear life, not wanting to let go. They were mellow and physically spent, ready to sleep. Gretchen rolled over, placing her head on his chest, sighing contentedly.

"I love you," he whispered, stroking her tenderly.

* * * * *

On the morning designated to start Illya’s treatment, Yossi and Gretchen double checked their notes, the files, the serum and equipment, hoping that their endless hours of research would pay off. Illya arrived at 8 with apprehension about the procedure. The risks were explained to him several times and he was willing to take them, but something still made him uneasy.

Illya was to have his blood filtered through a dialysis machine which would chemically remove the altered DNA, then the blood would be reintroduced into his body with the serum containing his original DNA. Theoretically, it should work. The only variables were the conflicting notes in the files. Neither Vicktor nor Gianni would give them answers. Gretchen and Yossi depended on their experience and hopefully luck to get it right.

Before the procedure was to begin, Illya requested a few moments. Something still bothered him. He talked it out with the doctors, and finally recalled something about being asleep when he was brainwashed. They looked through the files once more and found information about placing Illya in a comatose state before beginning, blocking out all extraneous stimuli. The idea sounded medically feasible, so they decided to induce the coma before going any further.

Conflicting reports in the Thrush files made it difficult to accurately determine how long Kuryakin needed to remain totally still. Outside stimulation could be detrimental, possibly causing neurological or physical disabilities. But again, the files were vague and conflicting. Lighting was kept at a minimum, monitors were kept in a "mute" mode, causing no sounds at all. Anyone who entered the room had to wear padded slippers, preventing the sound of footsteps. No talking or unnecessary touching was allowed.

Once unconscious, Illya trustingly placed his life totally in Yossi’s and Gretchen’s hands. He felt nothing, heard nothing, sensed nothing, but after several hours of inky darkness, the dreams began filtering into his subconscious....

_"You’re late!" Illya hissed into his communicator. "Where are you?" The blond UNCLE agent was lying face down at the apex of a sand dune, surrounded by total darkness. He and Solo were supposed to rendezvous at 1 am, a hundred yards north_ _of their pre-planned landmark. It was now 1:45, and Solo was nowhere in sight._

_"I’m on time. It’s one o’clock. And where are you?" Napoleon hissed back._

_"Check you watch again, Napoleon. You’re three quarters of an hour late and not where you’re supposed to be. I f you weren’t so distracted last night, perhaps your margin for error would decrease."_

_"I am on time," Solo reiterated harshly, "and my distraction was well worth_ _the loss if sleep."_

The stress of the affair gone sour had taken its toll on Napoleon. Although he remained tight-lipped about his role in what led to Illya’s eventual abduction, UNCLE, and Mr. Waverly in particular, had seen a decline in his performance. A disciplinary committee convened to decide whether Solo’s indiscretions were a key factor in losing Illya Kuryakin to Thrush. Napoleon sat relatively stone faced throughout the discussions, neither defending nor admonishing himself.

Yossi Shapiro also noticed the change in Napoleon. He understood Solo’s relationship with Illya as a deep and trusting friendship. He also recognized that Napoleon’s demeanor was different.

While Illya was in treatment, there was nothing to do but sit and wait. Yossi caught Napoleon in an exceptionally morose mood after the treatment started.

"It’s nothing, Yossi. I’m just worried about him, " Napoleon explained.

"So am I, but I’m not skulking around like a wounded animal."

Napoleon glared at him. "And what the hell does that mean?"

"It means that something is eating at you. We’re all worried about Illya. This is probably our last shot at returning him to normalcy. We’re all stressed." The volume in Yossi’s voice began increasing. "What in the world is wrong with you?"

Napoleon shook his head and cast his eyes downward, breathing heavily. Sweat began to form on his brow. He turned to walk away, but Yossi took hold of his upper arm, stopping him. Napoleon was shaking.

"Napoleon, you’re falling apart. What’s wrong?"

The senior agent looked up and slowly admitted that he was responsible.

_"You’re not at our planned location. I can’t even find you with my nightvisions."_

_Napoleon raised his hand above the dune he lay atop._

_"OK, got your location. You’re about 200 hundred yards south of me," Illya said._

_"Yes, our instructions were to meet 100 hundred yards south of the landmark."_

_"No, Napoleon, we were supposed to met 100 yards NORTH of the landmark, not south. You are obviously thinking with the wrong head."_

_"Illya," Solo said urgently. "About 10 men have surrounded you. I’m coming over."_

Napoleon sat down with Yossi and placed his head in his hands. "This is all my fault. I should have listened to him and stayed in the night before."

"Following your hormones again, eh?" Yossi mused.

"I didn’t intend to stay out all night. She was so beautiful, so intoxicating...I didn’t realize I had fallen asleep. When I woke up, she had gone. But I had plenty of time to make the rendezvous with Illya."

"So what was the problem?"

"I misunderstood the rendezvous location and I arrived 45 minutes late. Illya was furious. I just sloughed it off, not thinking."

_Illya looked up just as he was being descended upon by a hoard of Thrush soldiers. He barely had time to unholster his UNCLE special when the first one attacked, followed by the rest in split second timing. He cursed Napoleon’s lapse of judgment as they pummeled him with their fists and gun butts, bringing him down to the ground in a matter of seconds._

_Dazed, his mind still reeled. The sound of an approaching helicopter broke the near silence, and at what Illya thought was exactly the precise moment of opportunity, curled in a ball and rolled down the sand dune. The chopper turned on its searchlight, crisscrossing the immediate area of the desert in search of their runaway prey._

_"Illya! ’2 o’clock’!" a familiar voice shouted. Kuryakin turned a few degrees to the right and continued running. Within minutes, his plan was thwarted by another barrage of Thrush soldiers coming his way in jeeps. He turned to run in the other direction, only to find he was totally surrounded._

_He heard no more from Napoleon. Illya was unsure whether his partner had been killed, captured or merely prudent in concealing his whereabouts._

_The last thing Illya remembered was hearing a muffled "pop" before falling to the ground._

"I really don’t want to talk about this anymore," Napoleon said abruptly, getting up from his chair.

"Well, that’s mature. After all Illya’s been through, you’re worried about a little guilt? Come on, Napoleon...you owe him more than that."

"Don’t you see, Yossi? This could have all been avoided." Napoleon banged his fist on the desk in frustration. "I’ve racked my brain for weeks trying to figure out what went wrong, and it all comes down to the same reason...me...my lack of good judgment. Maybe it’s time for me to bow out of this profession."

"OK, OK, don’t blow a gasket on me now Napoleon. Sit down. Tell me what happened next."

Napoleon took his seat again. He sat silent for a few minutes trying to find the words to describe what happened next.

"I saw he was surrounded by about 10 Thrush soldiers. By the time I could warn him, they had already begun attacking. I was about 200 yards away...I ran as fast as I could...I was finally spotted and they began shooting at me. The only cover was a narrow trench in the sand. If I would move from there, they would have shot me. I diverted their attention for a few seconds and gave Illya a chance to get away. He rolled down the sand dune. I told him which way to run, but others were waiting at the bottom. They overpowered him, beat him up horribly. He must have still resisted because they shot him in the chest. I assumed he was dead, but they took him away afterwards. That led me to believe he was still alive. "

_Illya woke with a blazing headache. At first, he barely opened his eyes, squinting through his eyelashes to conceal his return to consciousness. The lights in the room were blinding. Squinting was about all he could handle at the moment._

_He looked around the best he could. The room was large and walled in glass. He caught sight of an occasional passerby who peered in at him momentarily and then moved on. Various sorts of medical equipment stood around, IV lines ready to go, monitors. Over his left shoulder stood a rack. In his haziness, Illya had to squint to see its contents. At first, it looked like a cue rack from a billiards parlor. After his eyes adjusted, he noticed that the contents were not as benign as pool cues. It contained straps, whips, and other instruments of torture. The scenario was beginning to take shape._

_Someone had placed him face down on a cold, metal table. Naked. His arms and legs were bound at the wrists and ankles, preventing any movement. Illya tested the restraints, they offered no give at all. His field of vision was limited. He was able to move his head, but his line of vision was only above his shoulders._

_The room was frigid. As consciousness increased, so the the chill. Shivers_ _turned into shudders, then tremorous shakes. No one entered the room. What seemed like an eternity had passed, and not a soul came in to attempt intimidating or interrogating him._

 _His muscles were sore from the hits and kicks he received before his capture,_ _and his senses were somewhat dulled from the knockout drug they literally shot into him. He shut his eyes, hoping these sensations would eventually subside._

_Much later a door opened. Illya was unable to the portal since it was out of his line of vision, but the area of entry seemed to be to his left, behind the rack. Two sets of footsteps walked through the door. One immediately stopped and the other continued towards him._

_Illya looked over his left shoulder and saw Gianni Vito walking towards him. Gianni Vito, Napoleon’s old nemesis._

_"You’re still around?" Illya asked groggily. "I thought for sure that Thrush would have eliminated you a long time ago."_

_"Unfortunately for you, I’m still here."_

_"I can’t understand it. Thrush has no tolerance for ineptness, and you definitely fall into that category. If my memory serves me correctly, you were completely unable to carry out your last mission against UNCLE. A total disaster. You caused the downfall of an entire installation single-handedly. Thrush must really be desperate for..."_

_Illya never finished his sentence. A searing blow struck the back of his thighs, causing him to gasp in pain. Then three more. Looking over his left shoulder, he saw another familiar face. Vicktor Schwenk. Dr. Vicktor Schwenk, UNCLE’s behaviorist. The last person he expected to see working alongside the likes of Gianni._

_"You look surprised to see me, Kuryakin."_

_"Under these circumstances, yes." Illya paused a moment, then chuckled. "Although I wouldn’t put it past you to work both sides."_

_Schwenk grabbed a fistful of Illya’s blond hair, yanking his head back. "You never did like me, did you."_

_"’Trust you’ is more like it. You always came across as a weasly little man. Actually, the two of you make a perfect team."_

_Schwenk forcefully dropped Illya’s head, causing him to wince upon impact._

_"You’re probably wondering why you’re here," Gianni started._

_"The thought never crossed my mind," Illya retorted dryly._

_"You have been selected for a little experiment, Kuryakin. Vicktor and I had to make a decision...which UNCLE agent would it be the hardest to break." Gianni Vito broke out into a big grin. "And you won! Aren’t you proud of yourself?"_

_"And for what reason was that honor bestowed upon me?"_

_"Well, actually Illya, it’s two-fold," Vito began. "You’re tough. Extremely tough. We felt it would be more difficult to break you than Napoleon. And..." another big Gianni grin appeared, "...Solo will take responsibility for your abduction. After all, he was out all night with some ravishing brunette," Gianni turned to Schwenk and scratched his head, "...was it Selina or Antoinette this time?" He once again focused his attention in Illya. "Anyway, she drugged his bedside martini and set his watch back 45 minutes, making him late and not quite up to par for your rendezvous."_

_Vicktor Schwenk joined in. "The change in location came from me. He was told to meet you south of your landmark, not north. So you see, Illya, you’re in quite a bind...literally. UNCLE has no idea where you are, Napoleon will feel responsible for your capture and we have you. Do you want to hear the clincher?" Schwenk preened like a peacock. "I plan to have Mr. Waverly send him to me for counseling and evaluation. I’m going to make sure he’s extremely guilt ridden with his lack of judgement...and of course tell dear old Alexander that he may not be emotionally fit to resume his responsibilities as an agent. It’s a win-win situation."_

Mr. Waverly had taken pride in his choice of senior agent and wasn’t about to dismiss his effectiveness without fully investigating the affair. Napoleon’s reports were factual, almost clinical, but devoid of insight. Even in private, the old man was unable to pry the unwritten details from his top agent. His final suggestion was to have Solo evaluated by Dr. Vicktor Schwenk.

His sessions with the behaviorist were unfruitful. Napoleon sat with his arms stubbornly crossed over his chest and refused to talk about his actions, insisting that everything went as planned. In his report to Mr. Waverly, Vicktor Schwenk interpreted the silence as an emotional breakdown, stating that in his professional opinion, Napoleon Solo was no longer fit to work as a field agent.

The old man could read into Napoleon’s actions better than most. Instead of demoting him to a desk job, Mr. Waverly recommended that his top agent take a few weeks R&R. "Go on vacation. Get some fresh air," he then looked up at Napoleon, "you’re a little pale. Why not go somewhere sunny and get a good tan?"

Napoleon understood his boss’ meaning. He went home, packed a few bags and headed for Saudi Arabia.

_"You mustn’t underestimate Napoleon," Illya said harshly, still shaking from the cold._

_"Oh, I haven’t," Schwenk reassured him. "Please remember I have my doctorate in behavioral science, and I know both of you like a book. I’ve observed the dynamics of your partnership...and the weaknesses."_

_Illya looked up quizzically._

_"Yes, there are weaknesses. Mainly your friendship. You’ve worked as a team for so long you almost think alike. As a result, you’ve bonded. I would wager to say he’s the only person with whom you’ve truly felt close, the only person you would trust_ _with your life."_

_"Above friendship, he’s a professional," Illya defended. "Don’t let that charming exterior fool you. Napoleon would not let feelings cloud his judgment. He’s too much of a realist for that."_

_"No, you’re the realist, Kuryakin," Vicktor corrected. "His background laid the foundation for trust, yours didn’t. But your past is what toughened you in the first place. That is why we selected you for our experiment."_

Napoleon entered UNCLE’s Saudi Arabian headquarters the following day. Mr. Waverly’s notice of the arrival preceded him, so arrangements were made for him to reside in an on-site apartment. The accommodations provided him with the freedom of searching for Illya on his own with the security of having a small army of UNCLE agents at his disposal should he need them.

_"And what exactly is this experiment you've spoken of?"_

_"Well," Gianni began, "we’re interested in seeing how long it would take for us to completely wear you down and break you. Actually," he laughed, "throughout this installation, we have people wagering on how long you’ll last. So far, the bets range_ _from two days to a week and a half."_

_"You seem very open about your intentions," Illya said. "The old Thrush gloat, isn’t it?"_

_"My telling you all this is a moot point, because, when all is said and done, you won’t remember a thing. Me, Gianni, this place, your affiliation with UNCLE, Napoleon...nothing at all," Schwenk boasted. "oh, and you haven’t even heard the entire plan yet," he continued, reaching for the waiting IV line which hung nearby. "We plan to keep you immobile for as long as it takes. I’m going to put an IV line in your arm and pump you with fluids to keep you hydrated. You will get no food or water from us. If this hydration is inadequate, oh well..." Vicktor found a vein and pierced the lead into Illya’s forearm, removed the needle and attached the plastic tubing. He adjusted the drip to fully hydrate Kuryakin’s body._

_"Also, I’m adding a pinch of salt to help you retain the fluids. I don’t want you drying out in the sun tomorrow." Vicktor Schwenk paused a moment. "Speaking of being in the sun, I’ve developed a serum which aids sun tanning. It provides a self-induced sunscreen so you can sunbathe tomorrow and not burn at all."_

_Illya kept his icy blue gaze fixated on Schwenk, shivering terribly with the cold and fear._

_"And don’t even think of escaping while you’re outside. We’ve covered those bases as well," Gianni chimed in. "The good doctor will induce paralysis before taking you outside, so you couldn’t move if you tried."_

_"We don’t want you miss all this excitement," Schwenk added. "I’m also pumping your system full of stimulants. A little concoction I’ve developed, primarily a low dose of speed and caffeine. So in a nutshell, you’re going to be paralyzed, hungry, thirsty, uncomfortable and sleep deprived. You’re also fair game for anyone who wants to come in here and...do whatever?" Vicktor Schwenk demonstrated with several more strokes of the strap again Illya’s back. "The only limitations I’ve set on your abuse is no broken bones or internal injuries...treatment is too lengthy. I also requested that they refrain from drawing too much blood. We wouldn’t want your heart to give out before you do."_

_With those final words, both Schwenk and Vito turned and left. Illya experienced a level of despair he hadn’t felt very often. He pulled at his restraints. They held him down securely. Where the hell was Napoleon? Shouldn’t he be crashing through the glass walls by now, rescuing him?_

Solo’s search had been in vain. Even with UNCLE’s surveillance systems, satellite photography, and technology, he was unable to find Illya Kuryakin. With each passing day, Napoleon’s mood darkened more. This was all his fault. Even Vicktor Schwenk confirmed it. He failed, and his failure caused the demise of his partner and closest friend.

_Illya’s heart raced. The stimulants increased his heart rate so dramatically, he felt the pounding in his chest. Sleep was out of the question. Perhaps that was for the better. He needed an alert mind to maximize any opportunity of escape._

_Many hours later the unseen door reopened and two familiar sets of footsteps entered again. Like before, one stopped after entering and the other came nearer; eventually both were near._

_Vicktor Schwenk was visible over Illya’s left shoulder. This time, he held a filled syringe in his right hand._

_"Good morning, Mr. Kuryakin. I take it you had a relaxing time so far," he said as he moved closer._

_Illya remained silent._

_Schwenk reached under the head of the table and released a latch, causing the area below Illya’s head to hinge down._

_Illya bucked, trying to flip his head upwards and out of the way. His punishment was three solid strikes across his back. Out of the corner of his eye, Gianni Vito was visible, holding a long narrow rod._

_Vicktor Schwenk pushed the hair at the nape of Kuryakin’s head away while holding the head down below the surface of the table._

_"I would suggest you stay very still, Illya," Schwenk started. "The paralysis drug I’m about to give you will eventually wear off. But if I miss my mark, your paralysis will be permanent."_

_With eyes closed in resignation, Illya stilled himself and allowed Vicktor to administer the drug. As the needle was withdrawn, he could feel the paralysis set in. Within 60 seconds, he ws unable to move any part of his body. The chill in the room remained, but it became impossible to provide even minimal warmth from shivering. Gianni laughed while Illya’s eyes widened in an attempt to breath regularly. Swallowing was difficult._

_Gianni raised his arm to strike again. This time, Illya could not even steel himself against the blow. Two, three, four more blows. There were no outcries of pain, no voice, just grunts to release his anxiety. He was virtually helpless._

_Two men silently entered the room and untied Illya’s restraints. Dr. Schwenk removed the IV line and put pressure on the puncture to stop the bleeding. When he was satisfied that Illya was ready to be moved, he motioned for the two men to take him._

_Illya’s limp body was dragged outside into the mid morning sun. Once outside, they laid him spread-eagle in the sand, face up. Vicktor Schwenk followed with an eyedropper and a thick white solution which he placed in Illya’s eyes, preventing_ _blindness. Kuryakin’s vision blurred into a translucent white._

_The desert sun beat down on him relentlessly. There was no respite; no shade, no water. He sweat profusely, and when the wind blew, grains of sand adhered to his wet skin. Flying insects took a particular liking to his moist body, landing and occasionally taking a bite out of his hide. Illya was not even able to raise his arm to shield his eyes. He was paralyzed, incapable of moving at all. Periodically, a man would emerge from nowhere and reposition him, literally roasting him on the other side. The day seemed endless. Even escape through slumber was impossible. Late in the day...many hours after being brought outside to this veritable inferno, he dozed off just a little as the stimulants wore off._

Napoleon had withdrawn further and further into himself. After searching for days at a time, he would return to headquarters and sequester himself in the apartment, sleeping for several days on end. He lost interest in friendships, relationships, sex. Mr. Waverly was concerned; Dr. Shapiro was worried. Maybe it was time for Napoleon Solo to end this fruitless search and get on with his life.

* * * * *

_The temperature begin to drop with the approach of evening. Thrush men came out to fetch him at the end of the day. The paralysis persisted and Illya was still as limp as a rag doll. His vision had cleared enough to see the side of a sand dune opening as the two men dragged him back into the installation and carelessly hoisted on to his metal table._

_He was wheeled through brightly lit corridors. Doors opened and he felt the wheels of the table rumbling over tiles...small tiles, like a bathroom floor. Water was turned on. His travel was in silence until now. The men began joking about their captive in Arabic. Illya heard three distinct voices ridiculing him, joking about his small stature and his probable lack of sexual prowess._

_Cold water hit his overheated body like a barrage of icy knives. He wanted to jump up, yell, scream...anything, but was unable to do more than close his eyes tightly and make throaty grunts to ward off his pain. His captors conscientiously made sure the frigid water washed over every inch of his body and when they were finished, left him dripping wet in the shallow pool of water which remained on the table._

_The table was rolled through another set of doors into the glass room and positioned as it was before. The temperature within the transparent cell was several degrees cooler than the bathroom and Illya’s body immediately reacted with an increased heart rate and labored breathing. The muscles were still too paralyzed to shiver. No one tied him down. It was unnecessary; he was not able to move at all. He lay on his back with limbs splayed open like a laboratory specimen, in full view of the Thrush agents walking through the glass lined corridors. As they passed, Illya saw them watching and pointing and making comments to each other. Still no movement in his own body._

_Vicktor and Gianni were waiting for him._

_"So how was your first day with us?" Gianni asked with mock interest._

_No answer._

_"At a loss for words, I presume."_

_Dr. Schwenk walked up to him, looking very professional in his white lab coat and stethoscope. He listen to Illya’s heartbeat then took his blood pressure. With no eye contact, he nodded in satisfaction and proceeded to insert another IV line in Illya, this time using his right arm. In silence, Vicktor hooked up the tubing, started the drip and added the tanning agent along with the stimulants. All Illya could do was helplessly watch this man take control of his life._

_As time passed, the cold became increasingly unbearable. Illya surprised himself the first time he was able to utter a sound. The drug was wearing off. His teeth soon chattered and his body began shivering a short while later. Eventually, he was able to move his fingers slightly, then his toes. Shortly, his arms and legs could shuffle a bit, but nowhere near the kind of strength and dexterity he would need to be effective._

_Illya mentally tried forcing himself to move at will, but the process was slow...too damn slow. It seemed like eons later when his arms gained adequate range of motion to remove the IV line. As one arm crossed over the other to free him of the drugs, the door opened. Thrush guards rushed to his table, and in one quick move, flipped him on his belly. Ankles and wrists were once again in restraints._

_"That was not a wise choice, Mr. Kuryakin," one of the guards reprimanded as he tightened the wrist bindings. Illya saw him nod to the other guard who dutifully went over to the rack and selected one of its instruments. He returned with a strap and gave Illya a sound trashing. Each blow harder than the one before. The passive guard intervened when he felt Illya was on the verge of unconsciousness, and they left._

_Illya’s stomach began to burn. He hadn’t eaten since the day before and his internal clock was on overload. The pain, cold and despair began taking its toll. He felt himself being worn down at a much quicker pace than usual. Their treatment proved to be relentless. There had been no break from his treatment in the past 24 hours and from Illya’s past experiences with Thrush, doubted that any relief would come._

_During the night, Vicktor Schwenk dropped in to see how his experiment was faring. Dark circles were beginning to form under Illya’s eyes from lack of sleep and stress. His body was becoming a grid of purple welts from the sporadic beatings he received. The doctor took copious notes on Illya’s progression, citing changes in his appearance and demeanor. To document his findings even further, he took photographs._

_"Hmmm, this may take less time than I originally thought," he said audibly to himself as he wrote. He looked up at Illya and smiled. "The ’3-day’ wagers may be on target."_

_"What exactly do you plan to do with the results of this ’experiment’?" Illya asked harshly as his teeth chattered._

_"Oh, I never did tell you about that, did I?" Vicktor moved even closer. "I guess I wouldn’t be giving away any classified Thrush information if I told you. Like iI said, you’ll never remember anyway. No recollection of this at all." He pulled up a chair and sat, bringing his eyes level with Illya’s. "I’m calling it the ’Sahara Experiment’. I’ve developed a drug which can completely cleanse the brain and reformat it however I choose."_

_"Brainwashing? How boring. Couldn’t you be more inventive?"_

_"But you see, my formula is different. I took a sample of your blood when you first arrived and now, I’m creating a serum from your own DNA. With chemicals, I can restructure its contents and introduce it back into your body. That, along with subliminal suggestion, will suppress everything you’ve ever known, basically wiping your slate clean. Once that has been accomplished, I re-program your thought processes and turn you into whoever I want."_

_"Exactly who do you want me to be?" Illya’s icy blue eyes were glaring into Schwenk’s._

_"Someone completely subservient. I’m going to change you into a slave, a lowly manservant. I’ve even selected your master...some nasty little man named Nasir. He’s absolutely wretched." Vicktor smiled. "Something to look forward to."_

_Schwenk stood up and returned the chair to its original spot. He turned his_ _attention to Illya once more._

 _"The only setback is that my victim has to be a willing participant, which of_ _course, you are not...at least for the moment. I plan to continue this course of treatment day in and day out until you give in. It’s simply a matter of time. Good night, Mr. Kuryakin." Vicktor left the room, leaving Illya to his solitary thoughts until he returned several hours later with another syringe of the paralysis drug and the start of another day._

_Illya didn’t know which he dreaded more...the blistering heat or the extreme cold. At first, the extremes seemed beneficial. After spending a sleepless night in a frigid room, the warmth of the sun helped thaw out his chilled body. Soon, the heat would become unbearable. Once the sun had dropped and evening approached, the chill of Thrush’s installation was welcome, cooling down the heat within. But, that also became short-lived once he was hosed down and left wet and naked on a metal table._

_Illya’s dominant frustration was finally regaining movement, only to be paralyzed again, a completion of the vicious cycle. Gianni Vito and Vicktor Schwenk knew exactly what they were doing, and according to Illya’s standards, quite effective. UNCLE would never condone these types of experiments, so Illya assumed Vicktor Schwenk sought the Thrush’s financial backing for his work._

_Each day found him weaker and weaker, more inclined to give in than the day before. The hunger evolved into extreme burning in his stomach. By the third day, he would have given up almost anything to roll himself up into a fetal ball to allay the pangs. The headaches were worse, as was his sensitivity to light and sound. Real sleep was not even an option. The stimulants kept him alert all night and most of the day. The scant time he’d doze outside near evening was fleeting. But once the drugs were re-infused in his system, sleep came no more. There was positively no relief from his torment, and he feared his point of no return was fast approaching._

_Every morning before the paralysis drug was administered, Dr. Schwenk asked him if he was ready to give in. Illya answered with silence, so the vicious cycle once again began its rotation. Each night, he became target practice for anyone and everyone who wanted a piece of him. He found himself screaming in pain more and more when his voice returned, completely humiliated by his lack of self control. When he regained movement in his limbs, the beatings caused him to pull against his restraints. The bindings at his wrists and ankles had cut through his skin, leaving dark bloody wounds._

_Even Gianni and Vicktor were surprised by his outbursts. Illya Kuryakin, UNCLE agent extraordinnaire, stubborn, stoic, with a very high threshold for pain, was now crying out. When his tormentors left, Illya would feel his own hot tears falling down his cheeks, humiliated even more because he was unable to wipe them away._

_Each day became progressively worse. When confronted with the question of giving in every morning, it became more and more appealing to succumb. Finally, on the eighth morning, he broke._

_As usual,Vicktor Schwenk came in with the paralysis drug in its pre-filled syringe. Illya was shaking so uncontrollably that the doctor thought he was having a seizure. After a rudimentary check over, a seizure was ruled out. The stimulants, along with the lack of sleep and other deprivations brought Illya near the brink of delirium. He wanted out. Anyway way possible, whether death or submission. When asked if he was ready to give in, Illya slowly nodded._

_"Are you sure?"_

_Another nod._

_Vicktor Schwenk walked across the room, bringing a covered metal tray and thick electric blanket. He laid the tray on a stand beside Illya’s table, and opened the blanket, laying it over Illya’s convulsing body. He plugged it in and its warmth began to reduce the chill._

_The covering to the metal tray was lifted, exposing its contents. Several syringes and vials of fluids lay in neat rows atop a sterilized towel. Vicktor placed the pre-filled syringe on the tray and selected a vial of amber serum._

_"This is going to relax you and counteract the stimulants," he said, injecting it into the IV line. "I can’t proceed until they’re neutralized." He left the room for several minutes, maybe half an hour...Illya had lost his concept of time long ago. The blond agent had no idea what day it was or how long he’d been captive. At the moment, he was satisfied that the chill was subsiding and the stimulants were being removed from his system, leaving him with an uneasy sense of calm. It was over. They had broken him._

_The door opened again when Dr. Schwenk returned. He advanced to the metal_ _tray and selected a pale green serum._

_"This is going to put you in a comatose state for a few days. I can’t work on you unless you’re state of consciousness is totally relaxed. You’re not going to feel a thing..." was the last sound Illya heard as the serum was injected into the IV._

"I had just made arrangements to go back to New York before going to the bazaar. ’One last look’, I told myself." Napoleon sighed. Hours had passed and he was still confessing to Yossi Shapiro. This was the first time he had bared his soul about this matter.

"It’s a good thing you did," Yossi reassured. "You never would have found him otherwise. It must be the telepathy that close friends develop."

Napoleon smiled for the first time in a while. "Is that scientific?"

"Of course."

"He looked so awful when I found him. It was like a knife in my gut when he didn’t recognize me. When I saw how badly he’d been hurt, I wish I could have taken the pain away...traded placed with him. He never deserved this."

"Don’t beat yourself up too badly, Napoleon. He knew the risks when he took the job."

"I know, but he didn’t plan on me trading in his trust for some one night stand."

_He woke upon a hard, cool surface. Part two of the ’Sahara Experiment’. His body curled into a ball with his arms wrapped around his shins. An eerie din hummed through his brain as a feeling of nothingness surrounded him. Having no idea of who or where he was, he simply lay there in a near stupor._

_A small opening appeared near the floor and a bowl of soup was pushed into the room. He numbly looked at it, then finally crawled over and picked it up. It smelled tempting, so he instinctively raised it to his mouth and began to eat._

_Suddenly, a door opened. An irate man stormed in and kicked the bowl out of his hands, spilling its contents on the hard floor._

_"I did not give you permission to eat!" the man yelled. He raised his hand and slapped the hungry man across the face before turning to leave._

_Stunned, the hungry man sat still for a while. When he got his bearings, he took the bowl and scooped its fallen contents back into it and continued his meal._

_A short while later, the angry man returned._

_"What’s your name?" he asked._

_No answer was given._

_The angry man kicked him several times then asked again._

_The hungry man shrugged his shoulders and shook his head, eyes wide in fear of being struck once more._

_"Your name is Illya."_

_The hungry man stayed silent as he tried to understand. "I..I..Illya?"_

_"Yes. I own you." The angry man began hitting him again. "You will obey me, understand?"_

_Illya nodded. The man left._

_The small aperture re-opened a short while later and more soup was pushed into the room. Famished, Illya picked up the bowl again and began to eat. The angry man re-entered and once again kicked the bowl out of Illya’s hands._

_"I did not give you permission to eat!" he repeated._

_Illya backed away, anticipating the angry man’s retaliation._

_The man moved swiftly after Illya, grabbing his shirt, dragging him to his feet. He pinned Illya against a wall and struck him with his fists. Wails came from deep within his throat as the assault continued. The beating stopped and Illya slid down the wall when his tormentor released him, not budging from his spot._

_Many hours passed. The small aperture opened once more, and again, soup was pushed through. Illya eyed the food, but sat still fearing another beating if he tried to eat it. A short while later, the angry man came in, picked up the bowl and handed it to Illya, then turned and left the room._

_A truck pulled up to the dirty gray tent. The driver got out, walked around the back and dropped the tailgate. In the early light of dawn, he dragged an immobile object off the flatbed and carelessly dropped it in the sand. The parcel stirred slightly upon impact. The owner of the tent came out and and handed the driver money rolled up in a rubber band. The exchange completed, the driver returned to the truck and drove away._

_The owner walked over to the delivered parcel, squatting down next to it. His newly acquired purchase was slowly regaining consciousness. As the sky lightened, he got a better look at the parcel - Illya, his new slave. He shook his head in disapproval upon seeing this man’s small stature. He was gaunt and boney, with dark circles in the hollows of his eyes. Not a very strong looking man at all._

_Consciousness came slowly, too slowly. The owner was becoming impatient and resorted to slapping the slave’s face to rouse him. The only reply was several quiet moans. More strikes. Eventually, the pain sent signals for the slave’s body to wake._

The images in Illya’s head began to fade back into the inky blackness of deep sleep. Little by little, sensations filtered through the murkiness, letting him know he was still alive. Arms and legs shifted slightly, his head rolled on the pillow, and eventually his eyes opened when someone quietly mentioned his name. Yossi was bending over him in the dimly lit room.

The doctor looked up at the monitors, satisfied with their flashes of light. Yossi kept vigil over Illya for the past hour, knowing that he would wake from the coma at some point during the night. Whether the procedure worked or not, he wanted Illya to see a familiar face when he woke.

"Illya. Can you hear me?"

The groggy blond agent nodded numbly, looking up.

"Do you know who I am?" the doctor asked.

Illya nodded again. "Yossi Shapiro," he answered weakly.

"Great. Do you know where you are?"

"If you’re here, I must be in Saudi Arabia," Illya replied after a few seconds’ thought. "What the hell happened to me? I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck." He tried sitting up, but Yossi coaxed him back down on the bed.

"You tell me. Can you remember anything?"

Illya closed his eyes and tried to make sense of the jumble in his brain. "I’m not sure. Something went wrong with the affair. I think I was abducted and taken to Thrush’s headquarters...but I’m not sure."

"You were...several months ago."

Illya bolted up. "Months?"

Yossi once again made him lie down. The surprised response convinced him that Illya had returned to normalcy. Their plan worked.

"You’ve been through a lot, Illya. Go back to sleep. We can talk later."

Illya became restless. "No...I can’t. What happened to me?" He paused. "Where’s Napoleon?"

"He’s finishing up some paperwork. It’s late, so he’ll be going to bed soon. You need sleep."

Illya resisted, and Yossi had to gently restrain him from getting off the bed. "You’re hooked up to practically every piece of equipment we have," Yossi mused. The blond agent looked at the wires attached to his chest and numbly tried removing them. Dr. Shapiro took Illya’s hands into his own and shook his head.

"I know," Illya sighed, resigning himself to Yossi’s care. "’Where did I get my medical degree?’ and ’Don’t steal your thunder’." He was too weak to struggle.

Reluctantly, Illya settled down. He relaxed sufficiently, allowing himself to process the images and thoughts that kept running through his brain. After a while, fatigue overwhelmed him and he could no longer stave off sleep.

* * * * *

Napoleon finished his reports and made it a point to see Yossi Shapiro before retiring for the night. It was after 3 am. Gretchen had already gone to sleep and Yossi was adding the final notes to his own report.

"It worked!" Yossi beamed, embracing Napoleon in a bear hug. "He woke up over an hour ago. I think he’ll be a hundred percent in no time at all!"

A look of relief appeared on Solo’s face, replacing his look of exhaustion. "I never expected a positive ending to this. I can’t thank you enough."

"All in a day’s work, my friend. Actually, this kind of challenge is a welcome diversion to my hum-drum job."

Napoleon merely raised an eyebrow.

"Removing bullets, repairing torn muscles, placing pieces of internal organs back into their rightful places ...come on, Napoleon, cut me a break. All that wears thin after a while."

They bid each other a good night, then Solo turned to leave.

"Napoleon...let him sleep."

* * * * *

Illya had difficulty reconciling himself to his surroundings when he woke this time. The room was dim. Lights flashed silently from monitors. He was comfortable and obviously safe. He looked around. Napoleon was sleeping in the chair next to his bed, wrapped in a white hospital blanket. Recollections of the past months had been sifting through his mind and in earnest, he tried solidifying them. Real memories were beginning to take shape, making more sense now. The time frame still confused him...several months was an eternity. Images of his captivity and torture, enslavement with Nasir and eventual rescue were evolving. Gretchen. He smiled. Aah, Gretchen, she was involved as well. That led to his re-abduction and ultimately to the restoration to his real self.

He reached over, nudging Napoleon. He knew the dangers of waking his partner, but couldn’t withdraw his hand quickly enough before it was clamped in a death grip.

"It wasn’t your fault," Illya said, looking Napoleon directly in the eyes.

Solo looked at him somewhat dumbfounded for a few seconds, not understanding the context of his remark.

"Gianni Vito set you up. Vicktor Schwenk’s experiments gave him an excuse to retaliate against you." Illya was wide awake and coherent now, making sense of what transpired.

Kuryakin explained Gianni’s ploy to have Solo seduced, ultimately leading to the chain of events which caused the abduction. Napoleon found out that Schwenk disseminated the wrong information to him, thwarting the plans to link up with his partner. Then Illya disclosed how Schwenk made the counseling recommendation to Mr. Waverly, discrediting him even more.

"I’m glad you’re back," Napoleon smiled, sitting on the edge of Illya’s bed. "I felt responsible for all this."

"So I heard. Unfortunately, you were manipulated into feeling that way." Illya paused. "Of course, had you listened to me and used even a slight modicum of self control in the first place, this never would have happened."

Napoleon lowered his head penitently and nodded. "You’re right. I’ll be more careful in the future."

"Yes, yes. I’ve heard that one before." Illya smiled.

They spoke for a little longer, then Napoleon excused himself, returning a short while later holding an ice bag on the back of his right hand. He had paid pre-dawn visits to both Vicktor Schwenk and Gianni Vito.

Yossi Shapiro literally burst into the hospital room mid-morning as Napoleon and Illya were having breakfast. He stopped in his tracks when he saw the quantity of food Illya intended to consume. Every square inch of his tray was covered with something edible.

"Is there actually room in your stomach for all that?" he asked incredulously.

Illya chuckled. "You’re the doctor. You tell me," he replied as he continued eating.

Yossi stuck his head out of the door and motioned for someone to come in. "Come on...we haven’t got all day!" He reached outside and pulled Gretchen into the room. She almost dropped the pile of files she was carrying in the process.

"I’m almost caught up on the paperwork," she said out of breath. Her files landed on the end of the bed. 

Gretchen turned towards Illya, smiling. "I heard you were awake. How do you feel?" She walked over him and casually kissed him on the cheek. Her hypotheses on the outcome of the procedure didn’t conclude how much of his altered memory would remain, so she did not plan on him remembering just how intimate they had recently become.

He stopped eating for a moment. He pulled her closer and gave her a warmer kiss on the lips. "Actually, quite wonderful at the moment."

Yossi stepped in and put his arm around Gretchen, squeezing her cheeks affectionately. "If I wasn’t already married, I would take this _shoën madela_ home with me and make a respectable woman out of her. Is she wonderful or what? What a brilliant girl! Such a prize!"

"We pulled it off, Illya," Gretchen beamed. "It was iffy there for a while, but we did it. Welcome back." She then picked up her files and headed out of the room, rambling on about more tests she wanted to perform on the serums before returning home.

"Can I see you later?" Illya asked before she left the room.

"Hmmm, I don’t know, Illya. You really need to rest and take it easy," she mused.

Illya reddened a bit and smiled. "Don’t worry. I’ll be well rested."

This time, it was Gretchen who blushed as she waved goodbye and left the room.

After eating, Illya showered and got dressed. Yossi was once again kind enough to provide him with clean clothes. He went to the communication’s room and conducted an overseas conference with Alexander Waverly.

"Utterly amazing," the old man said. "It’s almost impossible to believe that Drs. Zeinreich and Shapiro were able to restore you. You’re quite fortunate, Mr. Kuryakin. I would never had laid odds on this occurring."

"I guess that proves the dynamics of betting on an occasional long shot."

"I’ve already spoken with Mr. Solo. He informed me of Vicktor Schwenk's duplicity in his dealings with this affair. It’s unfortunate. Dr. Schwenk’s credentials were impeccable. He was an extremely knowledgeable researcher in his field. One rotten apple."

"How do you plan to deal with him?" Illya asked.

"He’s in confinement at the moment. The Saudi office will keep interrogating until we make some headway. Do you have any suggestions?"

"None that you’d want to hear," Illya replied bitterly. "His methods were a lot more inhumane than ours, but I must say, they were effective. I did pick up a few pointers along the way." Illya smirked.

"I heard Mr. Solo paid him several visits in the past 24 hours. Hmmm. I hope Napoleon wasn’t too unprofessional."

"What about Gianni Vito and Nasir?"

"Now that’s a different story. Mr. Vito is an unexpected prize. We can probably glean a little information from him. Nasir, on the other hand, is mainly an inconvenience. I haven’t decided what we should do with him. Any suggestions?"

"Once again, none you’d want to hear. But, I would like to ask a favor..."

Napoleon and Illya drove to Muhammed’s tent in the late afternoon. Muhammed and Mara came outside when they heard the vehicle approach, unaccustomed to having visitors stop by. They were delighted to see Illya again.

"This is a surprise!" Muhammed declared as he walked over to greet his guests. "I’m glad to see you both again." He pulled Solo over to his wife. "Napoleon, this is Mara, my lovely bride."

Napoleon brought her hand to his lips and kissed it. "The pleasure is all mine. Muhammed is obviously a lucky man." Mara melted with his touch.

Illya chuckled. _The old Solo charm still makes them weak in the knees_ , he thought.

"Come in, come in!" Mara invited. "It’s so good to see you both."

Napoleon picked up a large box from the back seat and brought it into the tent. Illya held on to a large manilla envelope.

"What’s this?" Muhammed asked as his two guests entered.

"This, my friend, is a box of air filters for your car," Illya explained as Napoleon set down the box. "It is a 1959 Mercedes, isn’t it? This should take care of you for a while. And this," he continued, handing the envelope to Mara, "is two airplane tickets to New York and a voucher to stay at one of our ritziest hotels."

Mara and Muhammed were speechless.

"I...I...don’t know what to say. This is very kind of you," Muhammed finally said.

"You’ve both been very kind to me. I honestly doubt I’d still be alive without you. This inadequately conveys my gratitude towards both of you. When you come to New York, please call me. I’d love to show you around."

Mara walked over, embracing Illya in another maternal hug. He hissed her on both cheeks.

"I’m going to miss your mint tea," he said, smiling.

"Well, I have some brewing right now. Please sit down and stay a while."

Muhammed brought over several overstuffed cushions for his guest to sit upon.

"This is such a coincidence. I just received good news from my daughter!" he beamed. "In the past week, both my she and her husband have been granted several interviews for jobs. Real jobs in their fields. Abdul accepted an engineering position with the city government and Penina will start working with a private pharmaceutical firm next week. Once they get settled, we can now visit."

"That is good news," Napoleon said. "I know they worked hard for their degrees. At least they can put them to good use now."

Mara came in with a copper kettle of mint tea and poured a glass for everyone.

Illya took a sip. A confused look came across his face.

"Is something wrong?" Muhammed asked.

"No...it’s fine, but I remember it tasting a little different before."

The big man took a sip and laughed. "That’s because my wife left out the whiskey this time."

Illya’s eyebrows raised. "You spiked it?" he asked Mara.

"It was medicinal," she assured.

Solo drove the jeep back headquarters before the sun set.

"Ironic that their daughter and son-in-law both got jobs at the same time, isn’t it?" Napoleon asked. He turned to his partner. "Now what are the odds of that, Illya?"

"Slim to none," he smiled. "But Mr. Waverly does have connections."

Gretchen was almost finished working when they returned. Illya met up with her in Yossi’s lab.

"I must say, Illya," she started, "this has been a definite learning experience for me. When I return to Germany I’m going to do further studies on this process."

He stood behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist. "I’m just glad its over. It was not pleasant being the subject of this experiment." He squeezed tighter. "There’s only one aspect of it I don’t regret." Gretchen felt him nuzzle the back of her neck, causing shivers to run up and down her spine.

"I...I...uh...need a few...minutes to finish here," she said almost breathlessly as his hands began caressing her. She turned around, facing him. "I just have a few more notes. My plane leaves tomorrow morning and I really want to finish them tonight."

"I’m a very patient man," Illya said as he released her. "Do whatever you need. I’ll see you a little later." He gave her a long, sensual kiss, then left.

Illya entered the security level several floors below. Behind several locked doors were the detention cells. Each cell was open on three sides, with a concrete wall forming the fourth. Security cameras monitored every square inch of the area and state-of-the-art locks ensured their prisoners’ captivity. Three detainees in their custody.

Illya first walked by Gianni’s cell. The bravado was gone. His face was swollen and purple, courtesy of Napoleon Solo.

"You don’t look half as bad as I though you would," Illya said matter-of-factly. "I thought for sure our interrogators would have put a little more muscle in their job." He paused. "Oh, that’s right...we use different tactics. Fortunate for you, eh?"

"Go to hell," Gianni muttered.

"I don’t think so," Illya replied smiling and walked away.

Vicktor Schwenk’s cell was next. He also had been visited by Napoleon.

"You see," Illya began with Schwenk, "it never pays to burn the candle at both ends. Surely your education would have taught you that."

Schwenk laughed. "True, true. But unless you burn it at both ends, you’ll never know which one burns brighter. I almost did it, Kuryakin. Almost managed to create the perfectly malleable mind. Can you imagine the implications...the applications for such a discovery?"

"Scary thought, especially in Thrush’s hands. But like you used to say, that’s a moot point."

"I can’t pinpoint where the Sahara Experiment failed." Schwenk lamented.

"From the beginning. You failed to take my capacity to learn into consideration. While I was basically unstimulated, I stagnated and remained as ignorant as you left me. Once Napoleon rescued me, he and Yossi jump-started my brain by forcing me to think. You removed my memory but not my capacity to retain new information." Illya chuckled. "Also, you should have kept your mouth shut. You told me every detail of the procedure while you were inflicting it on me. Believe it or not, the information began coming back to me little by little."

"That’s impossible!"

"Obviously not. My dreams created remarkably vivid images."

"Something to work on next time, my friend," Schwenk said ominously.

"I doubt that there will be a next time, Vicktor. If you’ll excuse me, I have one more stop to make."

The cell holding Nasir was last. Illya held on to the bars, looking in.

"What the hell do you want, Illya?" Nasir growled.

"I merely wanted to get one final look at you. Yes...you’re as disgusting as I remembered."

Nasir stood up, raising his hand to strike like before.

Illya glared at him with icy blue eyes. "I wouldn’t do that if I were you," he cautioned. "You see, the reality is that I get to go home tomorrow. You, on the other hand, will probably never see the light of day again." Illya turned around and smugly left the detention level.

* * * * *

Gretchen answered the knock on her door. She had just gotten out of the shower and the only thing she was wearing was a large bath towel wrapped around her body. A smiling Illya entered, sniffing the air.

"Have you made dinner?" he asked

"Just keeping it warm for you," Gretchen replied, escorting him into the living room. "...and I’m free for the rest of the night," she replied, moving closer. They embraced. "Are you hungry?" she asked.

"For what?" he whispered in her ear.

"Dinner," she cooed. "I haven’t eaten in ages."

"We could have dessert first..." Illya said, kissing her lips.

Gretchen pulled away just a little. "Won’t that spoil your appetite?"

"My dear, nothing spoils my appetite." He held her close, kissing her neck, running his hands up and down her back. His groin tingled as his body felt the first inklings of arousal. He loosened the towel and unwrapped her like a gift, lowering her nude body gently to the floor.

Gretchen unbuckled his belt, then with the undid the button and zipper on his trousers. His erect penis was straining through his underwear. Her hands slid beneath the elastic and tenderly cupped his ass. His clothing was becoming a nuisance, so he rid of them entirely.

He lay on top of her. The weight of his body and the feel of his erection against her skin was intoxicating. His kisses extended down her neck, hovering momentarily behind an ear. Gretchen’s throaty moans excited him even more. He sucked on her erect nipples while he tenderly massaged her inner thighs.

"Please, Illya," she moaned. "I want to feel you inside me."

"Mon plasir." His voice was musky, sensual.

Illya slid his knees between her thighs, forcing her legs to part. He slipped a little lower down so his head was level with her belly. He kissed her abdomen and slowly, gradually continued moving lower. His tongue ended its journey at her groin, driving her positively insane with desire.

Gretchen pulled at him. "Please...oh...take me..."

She stopped mid sentence as her wish was fulfilled. Her eyes closed and her body quivered with each move he made, thrusting deeper and deeper inside. Each plunge brought them closer to the climax which ultimately sparked like fireworks.

* * * * *

The following morning came entirely too quickly for Gretchen and Illya. Each was reluctant to discuss the ramifications of their staying together as a couple; they both knew the risks. They spent this last night together as if it were truly their last.

They rose and showered together. Illya found himself clinging to her physically more than usual, not wanting to let go. His desire to hold her, feel her body next to him lingered.

"Any hopes your plane will be delayed this time?" he murmured as the water rinsed off the remains of their soap bubbles.

She smiled. "I doubt a blizzard is in the forecast."

"How necessary is for you to leave today?"

"Very necessary."

They dressed. Gretchen threw her remaining personal effects into the suitcase and zipped it shut. Illya picked it up and escorted her to the vehicle exit. A jeep and driver were waiting to take her to the airport. Napoleon and Yossi were waiting there as well to say their goodbyes.

Yossi Shapiro embraced her and kissed her warmly on the cheek. "It was wonderful working with you, Dr. Zeinreich. I could not have done this without you."

"My pleasure entirely, Dr. Shapiro. We do make a good team."

Napoleon walked up to her next, hugging as well. "Don’t be a stranger, Gretchen." He paused. "And...uh...if you ever decide that you’re tired of this guy," he said, pointing to Illya, "keep me in mind, all right?"

Gretchen laughed. "I’ll do that."

Illya Kuryakin looked a little nervous. This was awkward for him, and he realized that he could have used a suave "Napoleon Solo" line at the moment. Having none on the tip of his tongue, he guided her away from the others to have one more quiet moment together. His head lowered a bit, reminding Gretchen of a shy schoolboy.

"If my memory serves me correctly, my alter ego confessed his love to you a few nights ago," he said quietly. He chuckled and smiled a bit, looking up into her eyes. "Well, both of us feel that way. You’re a remarkable woman, Gretchen." He kissed her one last time, and quietly whispered "I love you" in her ear.

Her fingers ran through the blond hair on his forehead, pushing it out of his eyes, and she nodded.

It was time to leave, so she picked up her suitcase and carried it to the waiting jeep. She climbed in the front seat, depositing her bag in the back, and waved goodbye. The exit door slid open, temporarily blinding them with mid-morning sun. After they drove off, the door began sliding shut. Napoleon’s and Illya’s gaze followed the car as long as possible.

"She’s some woman!" Napoleon absently sighed.

"Yup!" Illya responded, equally as absent.

"A good woman like that is hard to find."

"You’re right," Illya sighed.

"Almost makes you want to give up this lifestyle and settle down, eh?"

The two men thought in ernest for several seconds, then looked at each other.

"Nah!" they replied to themselves, turning around and walking back into headquarters.

**FINIS**


End file.
